GIFT   OF 
Mrs*   WflHam  Denman 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

AND  SIX  OTHER  PLATS  OF  THE  SEA 


THE     MOON     OF 
THE   CAR  I B  B  E  E  S 

AND 

SIX  OTHER  PLAYS  OF  THE  SEA 


BY 

EUGENE  G.  O'NEILL 


BONI  AND   LIVERIGHT 
NEW  YORK  1919 


Copyright,  1919, 
By  BONI  &  LIVERIGHT,  INC. 


A/5* /1 7 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 1 

BOUND  EAST  FOB  CABDIFF 34 

THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 67 

IN»THE  ZONE 85 

ILE 117 

WHEBE  THE  CBOSS  Is  MADE 147 

THE  ROPE  179 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

A  Play  In  One  Act 


CHARACTERS 


Seamen  of  the  British  tramp  steamer, 
Glencairn. 


YANK 

DRISCOLL 

OLSON 

DAVIS 

COCKY 

SMITTY 

PAUL 

LAMPS,  the  lamptrimmer* 

CHIPS,  the  carpenter. 

OLD  TOM,  the  donkeyman. 

BIG  FRANK 


^Firemen  on  the  Glencairn. ' 


West  Indian  Negresses. 


DICK 
MAX 

PADDY 

BELLA 

SUSIE 

VIOLET 

PEARL 

THE  FIRST  MATE 

Two  other  seamen — SCOTTY  AND  IVAN — and  several 

other    members    of    the    stokehole-engine-room 

crew. 

NOTE.— With  the  exception  of  'In  the  Zone."  the  action  of  all 
the  plays  in  this  volume  takes  place  in  years  preceding  the  .out 
break  of  the  World  War. 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 


SCENE — A  -forward  section  of  the  main  deck  of  the 
British  tramp  Steamer  Glencairn,  at  anchor 
off  an  island  in  the  West  Indies.  The  full  moon, 
half-way  up  the  sky,  throws  a  clear  light  on  the 
deck.  Th#  sea  is  calm  and  the  ship  motionless. 
On  the  left  two  of  the  derrick  booms  of  the 
foremast  jut  out  at  an  angle  of  forty-five  de 
grees,  black  against  the  sky.  In  the  rear  the 
dark  outline  of  the  port  bulwark  is  sharply  de 
fined  against  a  distant  strip  of  coral  beach, 
white  in  the  moonlight,  fringed  with  coca 
palms  whose  tops  rise  clear  of  the  horizon.  On 
the  right  is  the  forecastle  with  an  open  doorway 
in  the  center  leading  to  tJie  seamen's  and  fire 
men's  compartments.  On  either  side  of  the 
doorway  are  two  closed  doors  opening  on  the 
quarters  of  the  Bo'sun,  the  ship's  carpenter, 
the  messroom  steward,  and  the  donkeyman — * 
what  might  be  called  the  petty  officers  of  the 
ship.  Near  each  bulwark  there  is  also  a  short 
stairway,  like  a  section  of  fire  escape,  leading 
up  to  the  forecastle  head  (the  top  of  the  fore* 
3 


V1JIJS::MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

&  edge  of  which  can  be  seen  on  the 


In  the  center  of  the  deck,  and  occupying 
most  of  the  space,  is  the  large,  raised  square 
of  the  number  one  hatch,  covered  with  canvas, 
battened  down  for  the  night. 

A  melancholy  negro  chant,  faint  and  far- 
off,  drifts,  crooning,  over  the  water. 

Most  of  the  seamen  and  firemen  are  reclining 
or  sitting  on  the  hatch.  PAUL  is  leaning  against 
the  port  bulwark,  the  upper  part  of  his  stocky 
figure  outlined  against  the  sky.  SMITTY  and 
COCKY  are  sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  forecastle 
head  with  their  legs  dangling  over.  Nearly  all 
are  smoking  pipes  or  cigarettes.  The  majority 
are  dressed  in  patched  suits  of  dungaree.  Quite 
a  few  are  in  their  bare  feet  and  some  of  them, 
especially  the  firemen,  have  nothing  on  but  a 
pair  of  pants  and  an  undershirt.  A  good  many 
wear  caps. 

There  is  the  low  murmur  of  different  con 
versations  going  on  in  the  separate  groups  as 
the  curtain  rises.  This  is  followed  by  a  sudden 
silence  in  which  the  singing  from  the  land  can 
be  plainly  heard. 

DRISCOLL  —  [A  powerfully  built  Irishman  who  is 
sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  hatch,  front  —  irritably.] 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES         5 

Will  ye  listen  to  them  naygurs?  I  wonder  now, 
do  they  call  that  keenin'  a  song? 

SMITTY—  [A  young  Englishman  with  a  "blond 
mustache.  He  is  sitting  on  the  forecastle  head  look 
ing  out  over  the  water  with  his  chin  supported  on 
his  hands. ~\  It  doesn't  make  a  chap  feel  very  cheer 
ful,  does  it?  [He  sighs.] 

COCKY — [A  wizened  runt  of  a  man  with  a  strag 
gling  gray  mustache — slapping  SMITTY  on  the  back.] 
Cheero,  ole  dear !  Down't  be  ser  dawhn  in  the  marf , 
Duke.  She  loves  yer. 

SMITTY — [Gloomily.']  Shut  up,  Cocky!  [He 
turns  away  from  COCKY  and  falls  to  dreaming  again, 
staring  toward  the  spot  on  shore  where  the  singing 
seems  to  come  from] 

BIG  FRANK — [A  huge  fireman  sprawled  out  on  the 
right  of  the  hatch — waving  a  hand  toward  the  land] 
They  bury  somebody — py  chiminy  Christmas,  I 
tink  so  from  way  it  sound. 

YANK — [A  rather  good-looking  rough  who  is  sit 
ting  beside  DRISCOLL,.]  What  d'yuh  mean,  bury? 
They  don't  plant  'em  down  here,  Dutchy.  They 
eat  'em  to  save  fun'ral  expenses.  I  guess  this  guy 
went  down  the  wrong  way  an'  they  got  indigestion. 

COCKY — Indigestion!  Ho  yus,  not  'arf!  Down't 
yer  know  as  them  blokes  'as  two  stomacks  like  a 
bleedin'  camel?  • 

DAVIS — [A  shortt  dark  man  seated  on  the  right  of 
hatch]  An'  you  seen  the  two,  I  s'pect,  ain't  you? 


6        THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

COCKY — [Scornfully.]  Down't  be  showin'  yer 
igerance  be  tryin'  to  make  a  mock  o'  me  what  has 
seen  more  o'  the  world  than  yeself  ever  will. 

MAX — [A  Swedish  fireman- — from  the  rear  of 
hatch.]  Spin  dat  yarn,  Cocky. 

COCKY — It's  Gawd's  troof,  what  I  tole  yer.  I 
'card  it  from  a  bloke  what  was  captured  pris'ner  by 
'em  in  the  Solomon  Islands.  Shipped  wiv  'im  one 
voyage.  'Twas  a  rare  treat  to  'ear  'im  tell  what 
'appened  to  'im  among  'em.  [Musvngly]  'E  was 
a  funny  bird,  'e  was — 'ailed  from  Mile  End,  'e  did. 

DRISCOI/L — [With  a  snort.]  Another  lyin'  Cock 
ney,  the  loike  av  yourself! 

LAMPS — [A  fat  Swede  who  is  sitting  on  a  camp 
stool  in  front  of  his  door  talking  with  CHIPS.] 
Where  you  meet  up  with  him,  Cocky? 

CHIPS — [A  lanky  Scotchman — derisively.]  In 
New  Guinea,  I'll  lay  my  oath ! 

COCKY — [Defiantly]  Yus!  It  was  in  New 
Guinea,  time  I  was  shipwrecked  there.  [There  is 
a  perfect  storm  of  groans  and  laughter  at  this 
speech.  ] 

YANK — [Getting  up]  Yuh  know  what  we  said 
yuh'd  get  if  yuh  sprung  any  of  that  lyin*  New 
Guinea  dope  on  us  again,  don't  yuh?  Close  that 
trap  if  yuh  don't  want  a  duckin'  over  the  side. 

COCKY — Ow,  I  was  on'y  tryin'  to  edicate  yer  a 
bit.  [He  sinks  into  dignified  silence.] 

YANK — [Noddmg  toward  the  shore]     Don't  yuh 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES        7 

know  this  is  the  West  Indies,  yuh  crazy  mut? 
There  ain't  no  cannibals  here.  They're  only  com 
mon  niggers. 

DRISCOLL — [Irritably.]  Whativir  they  are,  the 
divil  take  their  cryin*.  It's  enough  to  give  a  man 
the  jigs  listenin'  to  'em/ 

YANK — [With  a  grin.}  What's  the  matter, 
Drisc?  Yuh're  as  sore  as  a  boil  about  somethin'. 

DRISCOLL — I'm  dyin'  wid  impatience  to  have  a 
dhrink;  an'  that  blarsted  bumboat  naygur  woman 
took  her  oath  she'd  bring  back  rum  enough  for  the 
lot  av  us  whin  she  came  back  on  board  to-night/ 

BIG  FRANK — [Overhearing  this — in  a  loud  eager 
voice. 1  You  say  the  bumboat  voman  vill  bring 
booze?  ^ 

DRISCOLL — [Sarcastically.]  That's  right — tell 
the  Old  Man  about  ut,  an'  the  Mate,  too.  [All 
of  the  crew  have  edged  nearer  to  DRISCOLL  and  are 
listening  to  the  conversation  with  an  air  of  sup 
pressed  excitement.  DRISCOLL  lowers  his  voice  im 
pressively  and  addresses  them  all]  She  said  she 
cud  snake  ut  on  board  in  the  bottoms  av  thim  bas 
kets  av  fruit  they're  goin*  to  bring  wid  'em  to  sell 
to  us  for'ard.' 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [An  old  gray-headed  man  with 
a  kindly,  wrinkled  face.  He  is  sitting  on  a  camp 
stool  in  front  of  his  door,  right  -front]  She'll  be 
bringin'  some  black  women  with  her  this  time — or 
times  has  changed  since  I  put  in  here  last.  - 


8        THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

DRISCOLL — She  said  she  wud — two  or  three — 
more,  maybe,  I  dunno.  [This  announcement  is  re 
ceived  with  great  enthusiasm  by  all  hands.] 

COCKY — Wot  a  bloody  lark! 

OLSON — Py  yingo,  we  have  one  hell  of  a  time! 

DRISCOLL — [Warningly]  Renumber  ye  must  be 
quiet  about  ut,  ye  scuts — wid  the  dhrink,  I  mane — • 
ivin  if  the  bo'sun  is  ashore.  The  Old  Man  ordered 
her  to  bring  no  booze  on  board  or  he  wudn't  buy  a 
thing  off  av  her  for  the  ship. 

PADDY — [A  squat,  ugly  Liverpool  Irishman.]  To 
the  divil  wid  him ! 

BIG  FRANK — [Turning  on  him]  Shud  up,  you 
tamn  fool,  Paddy!  You  vant  make  trouble?  (To 
DRISCOLL.]  You  und  me,  ve  keep  dem  quiet,  Drisc. 

DRISCOLL — Right  ye  are,  Dutchy.  I'll  split  the 
skull  av  the  first  wan  av  ye  starts  to  foight.  [Three 
bells  are  heard  striking] 

DAVIS — Three  bells.     When's  she  comin',  Drisc? 

DRISCOLL — She'll  be  here  any  minute  now,  sure 
ly.  [To  PAUL,  who  has  returned  to  his  position 
by  the  bulwark  after  hearing  DRISCOLL'S  news] 
D'you  see  'em  comin',  Paul? 

PAUL — I  don't  see  anyting  like  bumboat. 
[They  all  set  themselves  to  wait,  lighting  pipes, 
cigarettes,  and  making  themselves  comfortable.  There 
is  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  mournful  singing  of 
the  negroes  on  shore.] 

SMITTY — [Slowly — with  a  trace  of  melancholy.] 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES        9 

I  wish  they'd  stop  that  song.  It  makes  you  think 
of — well — things  you  ought  to  forget.  Rummy  go, 
what? 

COCKY — [Slapping  him  on  the  back.]  Cheer o,  ole 
love!  We'll  be  'avin  our  rum  in  arf  a  mo',  Duke. 
[He  comes  down  to  the  deck,  leaving  SMITTY  alone 
on  the  forecastle  head.~\ 

BIG  FRANK — Sing  someting,  Drisc.  Den  ve  don't 
hear  dot  yelling. 

DAVIS — Give  us  a  chanty,  Drisc. 

PADDY — Wan  all  av  us  knows. 

MAX — We  all  .sing  in  on  chorus. 

OLSON — "Rio  Grande,"  Drisc. 

BIG  FRANK — No,  ve  don't  know  dot.  Sing  "Vis- 
key  Johnny." 

CHIPS— "Flyin'  Cloud." 

COCKY — Now !     Guv  us  "Maid  o*  Amsterdam." 

LAMPS — "Santa  Anna"  iss  good  one. 

DRISCOLL — Shut  your  mouths,  all  av  you. 
[Scornfully.']  A  chanty  is  ut  ye  want?  I'll  bet  me 
whole  pay  day  there's  not  wan  in  the  crowd  'ceptin' 
Yank  here,  an'  Ollie,  an'  meself,  an'  Lamps  an' 
Cocky,  maybe,  wud  be  sailors  enough  to  know  the 
main  from  the  mizzen  on  a  windjammer.  Ye've 
heard  the  names  av  chanties  but  divil  a  note  av  the 
tune  or  a  loine  av  the  words  do  ye  know.  There's 
hardly  a  rale  deep-water  sailor  lift  on  the  seas, 
more's  the  pity.' 

YANK— Give  us  "Blow  The  Man  Down."    We  all 


ao      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

know  some  of  that.  [A  chorus  of  assenting  voices: 
Yes !— Righto !— Let  'er  drive!  Start  'er,  Drisc! 
etc.] 

DRISCOLL — Come  in  then,  all  av  ye.     [He  sings:] 

As  I  was  a-roamin'  down  Paradise  Street — 

ALL — Wa-a-ay,  blow  the  man  down! 

DRISCOLL — As  I  was  a-roamin'  down  Paradise 
Street— 

ALL — Give  us  some  time  to  blow  the  man  down! 

CHORUS 

Blow  the  man  down,  boys,  oh,  blow 

the  man  down! 

Wa-a-ay,  blow  the  man  down! 
•As  I  was  a-roamin'  down  Paradise 

Street- 
Give  us  some  time  to  blow  the 

man  down! 
DRISCOLL — A  pretty  young  maiden  I  chanced  for 

to  meet. 

ALL — Wa-a-ay,  blow  the  man  down ! 
DRISCOLL — A  pretty  young  maiden  I  chanced  for 

to  meet. 
ALL — Give  us  some  time  to  blow  the  man  down ! 

CHORUS 

Blow  the  man  down,  boys,  oh,  blow 

the  man  down! 
Wa-a-ay,  blow  the  man  down! 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES      11 

A  pretty  young  maiden  I  chanced 

for  to  meet. 

Give  us  some  time  to  blow  the 
man  down! 

PAUL — [Just  as  Driscoll  is  clearing  his  throat 
preparatory  to  starting  the  next  verse.'}  Hay, 
Drisc!  Here  she  come,  I  tink.  Some  bumboat 
comin'  dis  way.  [They  all  rush  to  the  side  and 
look  toward  the  land.] 

YANK — There's  five  or  six  of  them  in  it — and 
they  paddle  like  skirts. 

DRISCOLL — [Wildly  elated.]  "Hurroo,  ye  scuts! 
'Tis  thim  right  enough.  [He  does  a  few  jig  steps 
on  the  deck.] 

OLSON — [After  a  pause  during  which  all  are 
watching  the  approaching  boat.]  Py  yingo,  I  see 
six  in  boat,  yes,  sir. 

DAVIS — I  kin  make  out  the  baskets.  See  'em 
there  amidships? 

BIG  FRANK — Vot  kind  booze  dey  bring — viskey? 

DRISCOLL — Rum,  foine  West  Indy  rum  wid  a 
kick  in  ut  loike  a  mule's  hoind  leg. 

LAMPS — Maybe  she  don't  bring  any;  maybe 
skipper  scare  her. 

DRISCOLL — Don't  be  throwin'  cold  water,  Lamps. 
I'll  skin  her  black  hoide  off  av  her  if  she  goes  back 
on  her  worrd. 

SANK — Here    they    come.     Listen    to    'em    gig- 


12      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

glin'.  [Calling.]  Oh,  you  kiddo!  [The  sound 
of  women's  voices  can  be  heard  talking  and  laugh 
ing.] 

DRISCOLL — [Calling.]  Is  ut  you,  Mrs.  Old  Black 
Joe? 

A  Woman's  Voice — Ullo,  Mike!  [There  is  loud 
feminine  laughter  at  this  retort.] 

DRISCOLL — Shake  a  leg  an'  come  abord  thin. 

THE  WOMAN'S  VOICE — We're  a-comin'. 

DRISCOLL — Come  on,  Yank.  You  an'  me'd  best 
be  goin'  to  give  'em  a  hand  wid  their  truck.  'Twill 
put  'em  in  good  spirits. 

COCKY — [As  they  start  off  left.]  Ho,  you  ain't 
'arf  a  fox,  Drisc.  Down't  drink  it  all  afore  we  sees 
it. 

DRISCOLL — [Over  his  shoulder.]  You'll  be 
havin'  yours,  me  sonny  bye,  don't  fret.  [He  and 
Yank  go  off  left.] 

COCKY — [Licking  his  lips.]  Gawd  blimey,  I  can 
do  wiv  a  wet. 

DAVIS — Me,  too! 

CHIPS — I'll  bet  there  ain't  none  of  us'll  let  any 
go  to  waste. 

BIG  FRANK — I  could  trink  a  whole  barrel  mine- 
self,  py  chimminy  Christmas ! 

COCKY — I  'opes  all  the  gels  ain't  as  bloomin' 
ugly  as  'er.  Looked  like  a  bloody  organ-grinder's 
monkey,  she  did.  Gawd,  I  couldn't  put  up  wiv  the 
likes  of  'er! 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES      13 

PADDY — Ye'll  be  lucky  if  any  of  thim  looks  at  ye, 
ye  squint-eyed  runt. 

COCKY — [Angrily.]  Ho,  yus?  You  ain't  no 
bleedin'  beauty  prize  yeself,  me  man.  A  'airy  ape, 
I  calls  yer. 

PADDY — [Walking  toward  him£—  truculently.] 
Whot's  thot?  Say  ut  again  if  ye  dare. 

COCKY — [His  hand  on  his  sheath  knife — snarl 
ing.']  'Airy  ape!  That's  wot  I  says!  [PADDY 
tries  to  reach  him  but  the  others  keep  them  apart.] 

BIG  FRANK — [Pushing  PADDY  back.]  Vot's  the 
matter  mit  you,  Paddy.  Don't  you  hear  vat  Dris- 
coll  say — no  fighting? 

PADDY — [Grumblingly.]  I  don't  take  no  back 
talk  from  that  deck-scrubbin'  shrimp. 

COCKY — Blarsted  coal-puncher!  [DRISCOLL  ap 
pears  wearing  a  broad  grin  of  satisfaction.  The 
fight  is  immediately  forgotten  by  the  crowd  who 
gather  around  him  with  exclamations  of  eager  curi 
osity.  How  is  it,  Drisc?  Any  luck?  Vot  she 
bring,  Drisc?  Where's  the  gels?  etc.] 

DRISCOLL — [With  an  apprehensive  glance  back 
at  the  bridge.]  Not  so  loud,  for  the  love  av  hivin! 
[The  clamor  dies  down.]  Yis,  she  has  ut  wid  her. 
She'll  be  here  in  a  minute  wid  a  pint  bottle  or  two 
for  each  wan  av  ye — three  shillin's  a  bottle.  So 
don't  be  impashunt. 

COCKY — [Indignantly.]  Three  bob!  The  bloody 
cow! 


14      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

SMITTY — [With  an  ironic  smile.']  Grand  lar 
ceny,  by  God!  {They  all  turn  and  look  up  at  him, 
surprised  to  hear  him  speak.] 

OLSON — Py  yingo,  we  don't  pay  so  much. 

BIG  FRANK — Tamn  black  tief ! 

PADDY — We'll  take  lit  away  from  her  and  give 
her  nothin'. 

THE  CROWD — [Growling.]  Dirty  thief!  Dot's 
right !  Give  her  nothin' !  Not  a  bloomin'  'apenny ! 
etc. 

DRISCOLL — [Grinning.']  Ye  can  take  ut  or  lave 
ut,  me  sonny  byes.  [He  casts  a  glance  in  the  di 
rection  of  the  bridge  and  then  reaches  inside  his 
shirt  and  pulls  out  a  pint  bottle.]  'Tis  foine  rum, 
the  rale  stuff.  [He  drinks.]  I  slipped  this  wan 
out  av  wan  av  the  baskets  whin  they  wasn't  lookin'. 
[He  hands  the  bottle  to  OLSON  who  is  nearest  him.] 
Here  ye  are,  Ollie.  Take  a  small  sup  an'  pass  ut 
to  the  nixt.  'Tisn't  much  but  'twill  serve  to  take 
the  black  taste  out  av  your  mouths  if  ye  go  aisy 
wid  ut.  An'  there's  buckets  more  av  ut  comin'. 
[The  bottle  passes  from  hand  to  hand,  each  man 
taking  a  sip  and  smacking  his  lips  with  a  deep  "Aa- 
ah"  of  satisfaction.] 

DAVIS — Where's  she  now,  Drisc? 

DRISCOLL — Up  havin'  a  worrd  wid  the  skipper, 
makin'  arrangements  about  the  money,  I  s'pose. 

DAVIS — An'  where's  the  other  gels? 

DRISCOLL — Wid  her.     There's  foive  av  thim  she 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES       15 

took  aboard — two  swate  little  slips  av  things,  near  as 
white  as  you  an'  me  are,  for  that  gray-whiskered 
auld  fool,  an'  the  mates — an'  the  engineers  too,  may 
be.  The  rist  av  thim'll  be  comin'  for'ard  whin  she 
comes. 

COCKY — 'E  ain't  'arf  a  funny  ole  bird,  the  skip 
per.  Gawd  blimey!  'Member  when  we  sailed  from 
'ome  'ow  'e  stands  on  the  bridge  lookin'  like  a 
bloody  ole  sky  pilot?  An'  'is  missus  dawn  on  the 
bloomin'  dock  'owlin'  fit  to  kill  'erself  ?  An'  'is  kids 
'owlin'  an'  wavin'  their  'andkerchief s ?  {With  great 
moral  indignation.]  An'  'ere  'e  is  makin'  up  to  a 
bleedin'  nigger!  There's  a  captain  for  yer!  Gawd 
blimey!  Bloody  crab,  I  calls  'im ! 

DRISCOLL — Shut  up,  ye  insect!  Sure,  it's  not 
you  should  be  talkin',  an'  you  wid  a  woman  an' 
childer  weepin'  for  ye  in  iviry  divil's  port  in  the  wide 
worrld,  if  we  can  believe  your  own  tale  av  ut. 

COCKY — [Still  indignant.]  I  ain't  no  bloomin' 
captain,  I  ain't.  I  ain't  got  no  missus — reg'lar 
married,  I  means.  I  ain't — 

BIG  FRANK — [Putting  a  huge  paw  over  Cooky's 
mouth.]  You  ain't  going  talk  so  much,  you 
hear?  [COCKY  wriggles  away  from  him.]  Say, 
Drisc,  how  ve  pay  dis  voman  for  booze?  Ve  ain't 
got  no  cash. 

DRISCOLL — It's  aisy  enough.  Each  girl'll  have 
a  slip  av  paper  wid  her  an'  whin  you  buy  anythin' 
you  write  ut  down  and  the  price  beside  ut  and  sign 


16      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

your  name.  If  ye  can't  write  have  some  one  who 
can  do  ut  for  ye.  An'  rimimber  this :  Whin  ye  buy 
a  bottle  av  dhrink  or  [With  a  wink.']  somethin' 
else  forbid,  ye  must  write  down  tobaccy  or  fruit  or 
somethin'  the  loike  av  that.  Whin  she  laves  the 
skipper'll  pay  what's  owin'  on  the  paper  an'  take  ut 
out  av  your  pay.  Is  ut  clear  to  ye  now? 

ALL — Yes — Clear  as  day — Aw  right,  Drisc — 
Righto — Sure.  etc. 

DRISCOLL — An'  don't  forgit  what  I  said  about 
bein'  quiet  wid  the  dhrink,  or  the  Mate'll  be  down 
on  our  necks  an'  spile  the  fun.  [A  chorus  of  as 
sent. ~\ 

DAVIS — [Looking  aft.]  Ain't  this  them  corn- 
in'?  [They  all  look  in  that  direction.  The  silly 
laughter  of  a  woman  is  heard.] 

DRISCOLL — Look  at  Yank,  wud  ye,  wid  his  arrm 
around  the  middle  av  wan  av  thim.  That  lad's  not 
wastin'  any  toime.  [The  four  women  enter  from 
the  left,  giggling  and  whispering  to  each  other. 
The  first  three  carry  baskets  on  their  heads.  The 
youngest  and  best-looking  comes  last.  YANK  has 
his  arm  about  her  waist  and  is  carrying  her  basket 
in  his  other  hand.  All  four  are  distinct  negro  types. 
They  wear  light-colored,  loose-fitting  clothes  and 
have  bright  bandana  handkerchiefs  on  their  heads. 
They  put  down  their  baskets  on  the  hatch  and  sit 
'down  beside  them.  The  men  crowd  around,  grin- 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES      17 

BELLA — [She  is  the  oldest,  stoutest,  and  homeliest 
of  the  four — grinning  back  at  ihemJ\  Ullo,  boys. 

THE  OTHER  GIRLS — 'Ullo,  boys. 

THE  MEN — Hello,  yourself — Evenin' — Hello — 
How  are  you?  etc. 

BELLA — [Genially. ,]  Hope  you  had  a  nice  voy 
age.  My  name's  Bella,  this  here's  Susie,  yander's 
Violet,  and  her  there  [Pointing  to  the  girl  with 
YANK]  is  Pearl.  Now  we  all  knows  each  other. 

PADDY — [Roughly. ~\  Never  mind  the  girls. 
Where's  the  dhrink? 

BELLA — [Tartly.']  You're  a  hawg,  ain't  you? 
Don't  talk  so  loud  or  you  don't  git  any — you  nor 
no  man.  Think  I  wants  the  ole  captain  to  put  me 
off  the  ship,  do  you?" 

YANK — Yes,  nix  on  hollerin',  you !  D'yuh  wanta 
queer  all  of  us  ? 

BELLA — [Casting  a  quick  glance  over  her  shoul 
der.']  Here!  Some  of  you  big  strapping  boys  sit 
back  of  us  on  the  hatch  there  so's  them  officers  can't 
see  what  we're  doin'.  [DRISCOLL  and  several  of 
the  others  sit  and  stand  in  back  of  the  girls  on  the 
hatch.  BELLA  turns  to  DRISCOLL.]  Did  you  tell 
'em  they  gotter  sign  for  what  they  gits — and  how 
to  sign? 

DRISCOLL — I  did — what's  your  name  again — oh, 
yis — Bella,  darlin'. 

BELLA — Then  it's  all  right;  but  you  boys  has 
gotter  go  inside  the  fo'castle  when  you  gits  your 


18      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

bottle.  No  drinkin'  out  here  on  deck.  I  ain't 
takin*  no  chances.  [An  impatient  murmur  of  as 
sent  goes  up  from  the  crowd.]  Ain't  that  right, 
Mike? 

DKISCOLL — Right  as  rain,  darlin'.  [BiG  FRANK 
leans  over  and  says  something  to  him  in  a  low  voice. 
DRISCOLL  laughs  and  slaps  his  thigh.]  Listen, 
Bella,  I've  somethin'  to  ask  ye  for  my  little  friend 
here  who's  bashful.  Ut  has  to  do  wid  the  ladies 
so  I'd  best  be  whisperin'  ut  to  ye  meself  to  kape 
them  from  blushin.  [He  leans  over  and  asks  her 
a  question.] 

BELLA — [Firmly. ]     Four  shillings. 

DRISCOLL — [Laughing. ]  D'you  hear  that,  all 
av  ye?  Four  shillin's  ut  is. 

PADDY — [Angrily.]  To  hell  wid  this  talkin'.  I 
want  a  dhrink. 

BELLA — Is  everything  all  right,  Mike? 

DRISCOLL — [After  a  look  back  at  the  bridge.] 
Sure.  Let  her  droive! 

BELLA — All  right,  girls.  [The  girls  reach 
down  in  their  baskets  in  under  the  fruit  which  is  on 
top  and  each  putts  out  a  pint  bottle.  Four  of  the 
men  crowed  up  and  take  the  bottles.]  Fetch  a  light, 
Lamps,  that's  a  good  boy.  [LAMPS  goes  to  his 
room  and  returns  with  a  candle.  This  is  passed 
from  one  girl  to  another  as  the  men  sign  the  sheets 
of  paper  for  their  bottles.]  Don't  you  boys  for 
get  to  mark  down  cigarettes  or  tobacco  or  fruit,  re* 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES      19 

member !  Three  shillin's  is  the  price.  Take  it  into 
the  fo'castle.  For  Gawd's  sake,  don't  stand  out 
here  drinkin'  in  the  moonlight.  [The  four  go  into 
the  forecastle.  Four  more  take  their  places.  PAD 
DY  plants  himself  in  front  of  PEARL  who  is  sitting 
by  YANK  with  his  arm  still  around  her.~\ 

"PADDY—  [Gruffly.]  Gimme  thot!  [She  holds 
out  a  bottle  which  he  snatches  from  her  hand.  He 
turns  to  go  away] 

YANK — [Sharply]  Here,  you!  Where  d'yuh 
get  that  stuff?  You  ain't  signed  for  that  yet. 

PADDY — [Sullenly]      I  can't  write  me  name. 

YANK — Then  I'll  write  it  for  yuh.  [He  takes 
the  paper  from  Pearl  and  writes]  There  ain't  goin' 
to  be  no  welchin'  on  little  Bright  Eyes  here — not 
when  I'm  around,  see?  Ain't  I  right,  kiddo? 

PEARL — [With  a  grin]     Yes,  suh. 

BELLA — [Seeing  all  four  are  served]  Take  it 
into  the  fo'castle,  boys.  [PADDY  defiantly  raises 
his  bottle  and  gulps  down  a  drink  in  the  full  moon 
light.  BELLA  sees  him]  Look  at  'im!  Look  at 
the  dirty  swine !  [PADDY  slouches  into  the  fore 
castle]  Wants  to  git  me  in  trouble.  That  set 
tles  it !  We  all  got  to  git  inside,  boys,  where  we 
won't  git  caught.  Come  on,  girls.  [The  girls 
pick  up  their  baskets  and  follow  BELLA.  YANK  and 
PEARL  are  the  last  to  reach  the  doorway.  She 
lingers  behind  him,  her  eyes  fixed  on  SMITTY,  who  is 


20      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

still  sitting  on  the  forecastle  head,  his  chin  on  his 
hands,  staring  off  into  vacancy.] 

PEARL — [Waving  a  hand  to  attract  his  atten 
tion.]  Come  ahn  in,  pretty  boy.  Ah  likes  you. 

SMITTY — [Coldly. ~\  Yes;  I  want  to  buy  a  bot 
tle,  please.  [He  goes  down  the  steps  and  follows 
her  into  the  forecastle.  No  one  remains  on  deck 
but  the  DONKEYMAN,  who  sits  smoking  his  pipe  in 
front  of  his  door.  There  is  the  subdued  babble  of 
voices  from  the  crowd  inside  but  the  mournful 
cadence  of  the  song  from  the  shore  can  again  be 
faintly  heard.  SMITTY  reappears  and  closes  the 
door  to  the  forecastle  after  him.  He  shudders  and 
shakes  his  shoulders  as  if  flinging  off  something 
which  disgusted  him.  Then  he  lifts  the  bottle  which 
is  in  his  hand  to  his  lips  and  gulps  down  a  long 
drink.  THE  DONKEYMAN  watches  him  impassively. 
SMITTY  sits  down  on  the  hatch  facing  him.  Now 
that  the  closed  door  has  shut  off  nearly  all  the 
noise  the  singing  from  shore  comes  clearly  over  the 
moonlit  water.] 

SMITTY — [Listening  to  it  for  a  moment.]  Damn 
that  song  of  theirs.  [He  takes  another  big  drink.] 
What  do  you  say,  Donk? 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [Quietly.]  Seems  nice  an* 
sleepy-like. 

SMITTY—  [With  a  hard  laugh.]  Sleepy!  If  I 
listened  to  it  long — sober — I'd  never  go  to  sleep. 

THE  DONKEYMAN — 'Tain't  sich  bad  music,  is  it? 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES       21 

Sounds  kinder  pretty  to  me — low  an'  mournful — 
same  as  listenin'  to  the  organ  outside  o'  church  of 
a  Sunday. 

SMITTY — [With  a  touch  of  impatience.'}  I 
didn't  mean  it  was  bad  music.  It  isn't.  It's  the 
beastly  memories  the  damn  thing  brings  up — for 
some  reason.  [He  takes  another  pull  at  the 
bottle.] 

THE  DONKEYMAN — Ever  hear  it  before? 

SMITTY — No;  never  in  my  life.  It's  just  a  some 
thing  about  the  rotten  thing  which  makes  me  think 
of — well — oh,  the  devil!  [He  forces  a  laugh.] 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [Spitting  placidly.]  Queer 
things,  mem'ries.  I  ain't  ever  been  bothered  much 
by  'em. 

SMITTY — [Looking  at  him  -fixedly  for  a  moment — • 
with  quiet  scorn.]  No,  you  wouldn't  be. 

THE  DONKEYMAN — Not  that  I  ain't  had  my 
share  o'  things  goin'  wrong;  but  I  puts  'em  out  o' 
me  mind,  like,  an'  fergets  'em. 

SMITTY — But  suppose  you  couldn't  put  them  out 
of  your  mind?  Suppose  they  haunted  you  when 
you  were  awake  and  when  you  were  asleep — what 
then? 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [Quietly. ,]  I'd  git  drunk, 
same's  you're  doin'. 

SMITTY — [With  a  harsh  laugh.]  Good  advice. 
[He  takes  another  drink.  He  is  beginning  to  show 
the  effects  of  the  liquor.  His  face  is  flushed  and  he 


22      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

talks  rather  wildly.']  We're  poor  little  lambs  who 
have  lost  our  way,  eh,  Donk?  Damned  from  here  to 
eternity,  what?  God  have  mercy  on  such  as  we! 
True,  isn't  it,  Donk?' 

THE  DONKEYMAN — Maybe;  I  dunno.  [After  a 
slight  pause. ]  Whatever  set  you  goin'  to  sea? 
You  ain't  made  for  it. 

SMITTY — [Laughing  wildly.]  My  old  friend  in 
the  bottle  here,  Donk. 

THE  DONKEYMAN — I  done  my  share  o'  drinkin' 
in  my  time.  [Regretfully.]  Them  was  good 
times,  those  days.  Can't  hold  up  under  drink  no 
more.  Doctor  told  me  I'd  got  to  stop  or  die. 
[He  spits  contentedly]  So  I  stops. 

SMITTY — [With  a  foolish  smile]  Then  I'll 
drink  one  for  you.  Here's  your  health,  old  top! 
[He  drinks] 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [After  a  pause]  S'pose 
there's  a  gel  mixed  up  in  it  someplace,  ain't  there? 

SMITTY — [Stiffly]     What  makes   you  think  so? 

THE  DONKEYMAN — Always  is  when  a  man  lets 
music  bother  'im.  [After  a  few  puffs  at  his  pipe.] 
An'  she  said  she  threw  you  over  'cause  you  was 
drunk ;  an'  you  said  you  was  drunk  'cause  she  threw 
you  over.  [He  spits  leisurely]  Queer  thing, 
love,  ain't  it? 

SMITTY — [Rising  to  his  feet  with  drunken  dig 
nity]  I'll  trouble  you  not  to  pry  into  my  affairs, 
Donkeyman. 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES      23 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [Unmoved.']  That's  every 
body's  affair,  what  I  said.  I  been  through  it  many's 
the  time.  [Genially.]  I  always  hit  'em  a  whack 
on  the  ear  an'  went  out  and  got  drunker'n  ever. 
When  I  come  home  again  they  always  had  somethin' 
special  nice  cooked  fur  me  to  eat.  [Puffing  at  his 
pipe.}  That's  the  on'y  way  to  fix  'em  when  they  gits 
on  their  high  horse.  I  don't  s'pose  you  ever  tried 
that? 

SMITTY — [Pompously.]  Gentlemen  don't  hit 
women. 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [Placidly.]  No;  that's  why 
they  has  mem'ries  when  they  hears  music.  [SMITTY 
does  not  deign  to  reply  to  this  but  sinks  into  a  scorn 
ful  silence.  DAVIS  and  the  girl  VIOLET  come  out  of 
the  forecastle  and  close  the  door  behind  them.  He 
is  staggering  a  bit  and  she  is  laughing  shrilly.] 

DAVIS — [Turning  to  the  left.]  This  way,  Rose, 
.or  Pansy,  or  Jessamine,  or  black  Tulip,  or  Violet, 
or  whatever  the  hell  flower  your  name  is.  No  one'll 
see  us  back  here.  [They  go  off  left.] 

THE  DONKEYMAN — There's  love  at  first  sight  for 
you — an'  plenty  more  o'  the  same  in  the  fo'c's'tle. 
No  mem'ries  jined  with  that. 

SMITTY — [Really  repelled.]  Shut  up,  Donk. 
You're  disgusting.  [He  takes  a  long  drink] 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [Philosophically.]  Ah1  de 
pends  on  how  you  was  brung  up,  I  s'pose. 
[PEARL  comes  out  of  the  forecastle.  There  is  a 


24       THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

roar  of  voices  from  inside.  She  shuts  the  door  be 
hind  her,  sees  SMITTY  on  the  hatch,  and  comes  over 
and  sits  beside  him  and  puts  her  arm  over  his 
shoulder.] 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [Chuckling.]  There's  love 
for  you,  Duke. 

PEARL — [Patting  SMITTY'S  face  with  her  hand.] 
'Ullo,  pretty  boy.  [SMITTY  pushes  her  hand  away 
coldly.]  What  you  doin'  out  here  all  alone  by 
yourself? 

SMITTY — [With  a  twisted  grin.]  Thinking 
and, — [He  indicates  the  bottle  in  his  hand.] — drink 
ing  to  stop  thinking.  [He  drinks  and  laughs  maud- 
linly.  The  bottle  is  three-quarters  empty.] 

PEARL — You  oughtn't  drink  so  much,  pretty  boy. 
Don'  you  know  dat?  You  have  big,  big  headache 
come  mawnin'. 

SMITTY —  [Dryly.  ]     Indeed  ? 

PEARL — Tha's  true.  Ah  knows  what  Ah  say. 
[Cooingly.]  Why  you  run  'way  from  me,  pretty 
boy?  Ah  likes  you.  Ah  don'  like  them  other  fel 
lahs.  They  act  too  rough.  You  ain't  rough. 
You're  a  genelman.  Ah  knows.  Ah  can  tell  a  gen- 
elman  fahs  Ah  can  see  'im. 

SMITTY — Thank  you  for  the  compliment;  but 
you're  wrong,  you  see.  I'm  merely — a  ranker. 
[He  adds  bitterly.]  And  a  rotter. 

PEARL — [Patting  his  arm.]  No,  you  ain't. 
Ah  knows  better.  You're  a  genelman.  [Insinuat- 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES       25 

ingly]  Ah  wouldn't  have  no  thin'  to  do  with  them 
other  men,  but  [She  smiles  at  him  enticingly.]  you 
is  diff'rent.  [He  pushes  her  away  from  him  dis 
gustedly.  She  pouts.]  Don'  you  like  me,  pretty 
boy? 

SMITTY — [A  bit  ashamed.]  I  beg  your  pardon. 
I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude,  you  know,  really.  [His 
politeness  is  drunkenly  exaggerated.]  I'm  a  bit  off 
color. 

PEARL — [Brightening  up.]  Den  you  do  like  me 
— little  ways? 

SMITTY — [Carelessly]  Yes,  yes,  why  shouldn't 
I?  [He  suddenly  laughs  wildly  and  puts  his  arm 
around  her  waist  and  presses  her  to  him.]  Why 
not?  [He  pulls  his  arm  back  quickly  with  a  shud^- 
der  of  disgust,  and  takes  a  drink.  PEARL  looks  at 
him  curiously,  puzzled  by  his  strange  actions.  The 
door  from  the  forecastle  is  kicked  open  and  YANK 
comes  out.  The  uproar  of  shouting,  laughing  and 
smging  voices  has  increased  in  violence.  YANK 
staggers  over  toward  SMITTY  and  PEARL.] 

YANK — [Blinking  at  them.]  What  the  hell — 
oh,  it's  you,  Smitty  the  Duke.  I  was  goin'  to  turn 
one  loose  on  the  jaw  of  any  guy'd  cop  my  dame,  but 

seem'  it's  you [Sentimentally]  Pals  is 

pals  and  any  pal  of  mine  c'n  have  anythin'  I  got, 
see?  [Holding  out  his  hand]  Shake,  Duke. 
[SMITTY  takes  his  hand  and  he  pumps  it  up  and 
down.]  You'n  me's  frens.  Ain't  I  right? 


26      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

SMITTY — Right  it  is,  Yank.  But  you're  wrong 
about  this  girl.  She  isn't  with  me.  She  was  just 
going  back  to  the  fo'c's'tle  to  you.  [PEARL  looks 
at  him  with  hatred  gathering  m  her  eyes.] 

YANK— Tha'  right? 

SMITTY — On  my  word ! 

YANK- — [Grabbing  her  arm.']  Come  on  then, 
you,  Pearl!  Le's  have  a  drink  with  the  bunch. 
[He  pulls  her  to  the  entrance  where  she  shakes  off 
his  hand  long  enough  to  turn  on  SMITTY  furiously.] 

PEARL — You  swine !  You  can  go  to  hell !  [She 
goes  in  the  forecastle,  slamming  the  door.] 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [Spitting  calmly.]  There's 
love  for  you.  They're  all  the  same — white,  brown, 
yeller  'n'  black.  A  whack  on  the  ear's  the  only 
thing'll  learn  'em.  [SMITTY  makes  no  reply  but 
laughs  harshly  and  takes  another  drink;  then  sits 
staring  before  him,,  the  almost  empty  bottle  tightly 
clutched  in  one  hand.  There  is  an  increase  in  vol 
ume  of  the  muffled  clamor  from  the  forecastle  and  a 
moment  later  the  door  is  thrown  open  and  the  whole 
mob,  led  by  Driscoll,  pours  out  on  deck.  All  of  them 
are  very  drunk  and  several  of  them  carry  bottles  in 
their  hands.  BELLA  is  the  only  one  of  the  women  who 
is  absolutely  sober.  She  tries  in  vain  to  keep  the  men 
quiet.  PEARL  drinks  from  YANK'S  bottle  every  mo 
ment  or  so,  laughing  shrilly,  and  leaning  against 
YANK,  whose  arm  is  about  her  waist.  PAUL  comes 
out  last  carrying  an  accordion.  He  staggers  over 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES      27 

and  stands  on  top  of  the  hatch,  his  instrument 
under  his  arm] 

DRISCOLL — Play  us  a  dance,  ye  square-head 
swab! — a  rale,  Godforsaken  son  av  a  turkey  trot 
wid  guts  to  ut. 

YANK — Straight  from  the  old  Barbary  Coast  in 
Frisco ! 

PAUL — I  don'  know.  I  try.  [He  commences 
tuning  up.'} 

YANK — Ataboy!  Let  'er  rip!  [DAVIS  and 
VIOLET  come  back  and  join  the  crowd.  THE  DON- 
KEYMAN  looks  on  them  all  with  a  detached,  indulgent 
air.  SMITTY  stares  before  him  and  does  not  seem  to 
know  there  is  any  one  on  deck  but  himself.'] 

BIG  FRANK — Dance?  I  don't  dance.  I  trink! 
[He  suits  the  action  to  the  word  and  roars  with 
meaningless  laughter.  ] 

DRISCOLL — Git  out  av  the  way  thin,  ye  big  hulk, 
an'  give  us  some  room.  [BiG  FRANK  sits  down  on 
the  hatch,  right.  All  of  the  others  who  are  not  going 
to  dance  either  follow  his  example  or  lean  against 
the  port  bulwark.] 

BELLA — [On  the  verge  of  tears  at  her  inability 
to  keep  them  in  the  forecastle  or  make  them  be  quiet 
now  they  are  out.]  For  Gawd's  sake,  boys,  don't 
shout  so  loud !  Want  to  git  me  in  trouble  ? 

DRISCOLL — [Grabbing  her.~\  Dance  wid  me,  me 
cannibal  quane.  [Some  one  drops  a  bottle  on  deck 
and  it  smashes.] 


28       THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

BELLA — [Hysterically.]  There  they  goes  ! 
There  they  goes!  Captain'll  hear  that!  Oh,  my 
Lawd ! 

DRISCOLL — Be  damned  to  him!  Here's  the  mu 
sic  !  Off  ye  go !  [PAUL  starts  playing  "You  Great 
Big  Beautiful  Doll"  with  a  note  left  out  every  now 
and  then.  The  four  couples  commence  dancing — a 
jerk-shouldered  version  of  the  old  Turkey  Trot  as 
it  was  done  in  the  sailor-town  dives,  made  more  gro 
tesque  by  the  fact  that  all  the  couples  are  drunk  and 
keep  lurching  into  each  other  every  moment.  Two 
of  the  men  start  dancing  together,  intentionally 
bumping  into  the  others.  YANK  and  PEARL  come 
around  in  front  of  SMITTY  and,  as  they  pass  him, 
PEARL  slaps  him  across  the  side  of  the  face  with  all 
her  might,  and  laughs  viciously.  He  jumps  to  his 
feet  with  his  fists  clenched  but  sees  who  hit  him  and 
sits  down  again  smiling  bitterly.  YANK  laughs  bois 
terously.] 

YANK — Wow !    Some  wallop  !    One  on  you,  Duke. 

DRISCOLL — [Hurling  his  cap  at  PAUL.]  Faster, 
ye  toad!  [PAUL  makes  frantic  efforts  to  speed  up 
and  the  music  suffers  in  the  process.  ] 

BELLA — [Puffing.]  Let  me  go.  I'm  wore  out 
with  you  steppin'  on  my  toes,  you  clumsy  Mick. 
[She  struggles  but  Driscoll  holds  her  tight.  ] 

DRISCOLL — God  blarst  you  for  havin'  such  big 
feet,  thin.  Aisy,  aisy,  Mrs.  Old  Black  Joe!  'Tis 
dancin'U  take  the  blubber  off  ye.  [He  whirls  her 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES      29 

around  the  deck  "by  mam  force.  COCKY,  with  SUSIE, 
is  dancing  near  the  hatch,  right,  when  PADDY,  who  is 
sitting  on  the  edge  with  BIG  FRANK,  sticks  his  foot 
out  and  the  wavering  couple  stumble  over  it  and 
-fall  flat  on  the  deck.  A  roar  of  laughter  goes  up. 
COCKY  rises  to  his  feet,  Ms  face  livid  with  rage,  and 
springs  at  PADDY,  who  promptly  knocks  him  down. 
DRISCOLL  hits  PADDY  and  BIG  FRANK  hits  DRISCOI/L. 
In  a  flash  a  wholesale  fight  has  broken  out  and  the 
deck  is  a  surging  crowd  of  drink-maddened  men  hit 
ting  out  at  each  other  indiscriminately,  although 
the  general  idea  seems  to  be  a  battle  between  seamen 
and  firemen.  The  women  shriek  and  take  refuge  on 
top  of  the  hatch,  where  they  huddle  in  a  frightened 
group.  Finally  there  is  the  flash  of  a  knife  held  high 
in  the  moonlight  and  a  loud  yell  of  pain.] 

DAVIS — [Somewhere  in  the  crowd.]  Here's  the 
Mate  comin'!  Let's  git  out  o'  this!  [There  is  a 
general  rush  for  the  forecastle.  In  a  moment  there  is 
no  one  left  on  deck  but  the  little  group  of  women  on 
the  hatch;  SMITTY,  still  dazedly  rubbing  his  cheek; 
THE  DONKEYMAN  quietly  smoking  on  his  stool;  and 
YANK  and  DRISCOLL,  their  faces  battered  up  con 
siderably,  their  undershirts  in  shreds,  bending  over 
the  still  form  of  PADDY,  which  lies  stretched  out  on 
the  deck  between  them.  In  the  silence  the  mourn 
ful  chant  from  the  shore  creeps  slowly  out  to  the 
ship.'] 


30      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

DRISCOI/L — [Quickly — m  a  low  voice.]  Who 
knoifed  him? 

YANK — [Stupidly.]  I  didn't  see  it.  How  do  I 
know?  Cocky,  I'll  bet.  [The  FIRST  MATE  enters 
from  the  left.  He  is  a  tall,  strongly-built  mem 

THE  MATE — [Angrily]      What's  all   this   noise 
about?     [He   sees    the   man   lying   on   tlie   deck] 
dressed  m  a  plain  blue  uniform] 
Hello!     What's    this?     [He    bends    down    on    one 
knee  beside  PADDY.] 

DRISCOLL — [Stammering]     All  av  us — was  in  a 

bit  av   a  harmless   foight,   sir, — an' — I   dunno 

[The  MATE  rolls  PADDY  over  and  sees  a  knife  wound 
on  his  shoulder] 

THE  MATE — Knifed,  by  God.  [He  takes  an 
electric  -flash  from  his  pocket  and  examines  the  cut] 
Lucky  it's  only  a  flesh  wound.  He  must  have  hit 
his  head  on  deck  when  he  fell.  That's  what  knocked 
him  out.  This  is  only  a  scratch.  Take  him  aft  and 
I'll  bandage  him  up. 

DRISCOLI, — Yis,  sor.  [They  take  PADDY  by  the 
shoulders  and  feet  and  carry  him  off  left.  The 
MATE  looks  up  and  sees  the  women  on  the  hatch  for 
the  first  time] 

THE  MATE — [Surprised]  Hello!  [He  walks 
over  to  them]  Go  to  the  cabin  and  get  your 
money  and  clear  off.  If  I  had  my  way,  you'd 

never [His  foot  hits  a  bottle.    He  stoops  down 

and  picks  It  up  and  smells  of  it]     Rum,  by  God! 


THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES      31 

So  that's  the  trouble!  I  thought  their  breaths 
smelled  damn  queer.  [To  the  women,  harshly.'] 
You  needn't  go  to  the  skipper  for  any  money.  You 
won't  get  any.  That'll  teach  you  to  smuggle  rum 
on  a  ship  and  start  a  riot. 

BELLA — But,  Mister 

THE  MATE — [Sternly.]  You  know  the  agree 
ment — rum — no  money. 

BELLA — [Indignantly.']  Honest  to  Gawd,  Mis 
ter,  I  never  brung  no — 

THE  MATE — [Fiercely.]  You're  a  liar!  And 
none  of  your  lip  or  I'll  make  a  complaint  ashore  to 
morrow  and  have  you  locked  up. 

BELLA — [Subdued.]     Please,  Mister — 

THE  MATE — Clear  out  of  this,  now!  Not  an 
other  word  out  of  you !  Tumble  over  the  side  damn 
quick!  The  two  others  are  waiting  for  you.  Hop, 
now!  [They  walk  quickly — almost  run — off  to  the 
left.  THE  MATE  follows  them,  nodding  to  THE  DON- 
KEYMAN,  and  ignoring  the  oblivious  SMITTY.] 

[There  is  absolute  silence  on  the  ship  -for  a  few 
moments.  The  melancholy  song  of  the  negroes  drifts 
crooning  over  the  water.  SMITTY  listens  to  it  inr- 
tently  for  a  time;  then  sighs  heavily,  a  sigh  that  is 
half  a  sob.] 

SMITTY — God!  [He  drinks  the  last  drop  in 
the  bottle  and  throws  it  behmd  him  on  the  hatch.] 

THE  DONKEYMAN — [Spitting  tranquilly.]  More 
mem'ries?  [SMITTY  does  not  answer  him.  The 


32      THE  MOON  OF  THE  CARIBBEES 

ship's  bell  tolls  four  bells.  THE  DONKEYMAN  knocks 
out  his  pipe.]  I  think  I'll  turn  in.  [He  opens  the 
door  to  his  cabin,  but  turns  to  look  at  SMITTY — 
kindly.']  You  can't  hear  it  in  the  fo'c's'tle — the 
music,  I  mean — an'  there'll  likely  be  more  drink  in 
there,  too.  Good  night.  [He  goes  m  and  shuts 
the  door.] 

SMITTY — Good  night,  Donk.  [He  gets  wear 
ily  to  his  feet  and  walks  with  bowed  shoulders,  stag 
gering  a  bit,  to  the  forecastle  entrance  and  goes  in. 
There  is  silence  for  a  second  or  so,  broken  only  by 
the  haunted,  saddened  voice  of  that  brooding  music, 
faint  and  far-off,  like  the  mood  of  the  moonlight 
made  audible.] 

[The  Curtain  Falls] 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

A  Play  In  One  Act 


CHARACTERS 

YANK 
DRISCOLL 
COCKY 
DAVIS 

SCOTTY 

OLSON 

PAUL 

SMITTY 

IVAN 

THE  CAPTAIN 

THE  SECOND  MATE 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 


SCENE — The  seamen's  forecastle  of  the  British  tramp 
steamer  Glencairn  on  a  foggy  night  midway  on 
the  voyage  between  New  York  and  Cardiff. 
An  irregular  shaped  compartment,  the  sides 
of  which  almost  meet  at  the  far  end  to 
form  a  triangle.  Sleeping  bunks  about  six  feet 
long,  ranged  three  deep  with  a  space  of  three 
feet  separating  the  upper  from  the  lower,  are 
built  against  the  sides.  On  the  right  above  the 
bunks  three  or  four  port  holes  can  be  seen.  In 
front  of  the  bunks,  rough  wooden  benches. 
Over  the  bunks  on  the  left,  a  lamp  in  a  bracket. 
In  the  left  foreground,  a  doorway.  On  the 
floor  near  it,  a  pail  with  a  tin  dipper.  Oilskins 
are  hanging  from  a  hook  near  the  doorway. 

The  far  side  of  the  forecastle  is  so  narrow 
that  it  contains  only  one  series  of  bunks. 

In  under  the  bunks  a  glimpse  can  be  had  of 
seachests,  suit  cases,  seaboots,  etc.,  jammed  in 
indiscriminately. 

At  regular  intervals  of  a  minute  or  so  the 
blast   of   the  steamer's   whistle  can   be  heard 
above  all  the  other  sounds. 
35 


36    BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

Five  men  are  sitting  on  the  benches  talking. 
They  are  dressed  in  dirty  patched  suits  of  dun 
garee,  flannel  shirts,  and  all  are  in  their  stock 
ing  feet.  Four  of  the  men  are  pulling  on  pipes 
and  the  air  is  heavy  with  rancid  tobacco  smoke. 
Sitting  on  the  top  bunk  in  the  left  foreground, 
a  Norwegian,  Paul,  is  softly  playing  some  folk 
song  on  a  battered  accordion.  He  stops  from 
time  to  time  to  listen  to  the  conversation. 

In  the  lower  bunk  in  the  rear  a  dark-haired, 
hard-featured  man  is  lying  apparently  asleep. 
One  of  his  arms  is  stretched  limply  over  the  side 
of  the  bunk.  His  face  is  very  pale,  and  drops 
of  clammy  perspiration  glisten  on  his  forehead. 

It  is  nearing  the  end  of  the  dog  watch — 
about  ten  minutes  to  eight  in  the  evening. 

COCKY — [A  weazened  runt  of  a  man.  He  is  tell 
ing  a  story.  The  others  are  listening  with  amused, 
incredulous  faces,  interrupting  him  at  the  end  of 
each  sentence  with  loud  derisive  guffaws.]  Makin' 
love  to  me,  she  was !  It's  Gawd's  truth !  A  bloomin' 
nigger!  Greased  all  over  with  cocoanut  oil,  she 
was.  Gawd  blimey,  I  couldn't  stand  'er.  Bloody 
old  cow,  I  says;  and  with  that  I  fetched  'er  a  biff 
on  the  ear  wot  knocked  'er  silly,  an' [He  is  in 
terrupted  by  a  roar  of  laughter  from  the  others.] 

DAVIS — [A  middle-aged  man  with  black  hair  and 
mustache.]  You're  a  liar,  Cocky. 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF  37 

SCOTTY — [A  dark  young  fellow.]  Ho-ho!  Ye 
werr  neverr  in  New  Guinea  in  yourr  life,  I'm  thinkin'. 

OLSON — [A  Swede  with  a  drooping  blond  mus 
tache — with  ponderous  sarcasm.]  Yust  tink  of  it! 
You  say  she  wass  a  cannibal,  Cocky? 

DEJSCOKL — [A  brawny  Irishman  with  the  battered 
•features  of  a  prizefighter.]  How  cud  ye  doubt  ut, 
Ollie?  A  quane  av  the  naygurs  she  musta  been 
surely.  Who  else  wud  think  herself  aqual  to  fallin' 
in  love  wid  a  beauthiful,  divil-may-care  rake  av  a 
man  the  loike  av  Cocky?  [A  burst  of  laughter  from 
the  crowd.] 

COCKY — [Indignantly.]  Gawd  strike  me  dead  if 
it  ain't  true,  every  bleedin'  word  of  it.  'Appened  ten 
year  ago  come  Christmas. 

SCOTTY — 'Twas  a  Christmas  dinner  she  had  her 
eyes  on. 

DAVIS — He'd  a  been  a  tough  old  bird. 

DRISCOLL — 'Tis  hicky  for  both  av  ye  ye  escaped; 
for  the  quane  av  the  cannibal  isles  wad  'a  died  av  the 
belly  ache  the  day  afther  Christmas,  divil  a  doubt 
av  ut.  {The  laughter  at  this  is  long  and  loud.] 
^  COCKY — [Sullenly.]  Blarsted  fat  'eads  !  [The 
sick  man  in  the  lower  bunk  in  the  rear  groans  and 
moves  restlessly.  There  is  a  hushed  silence.  All 
the  men  turn  and  stare  at  him.] 

DRISCOLL — Ssshh!  [In  a  hushed  whisper.]  We'd 
best  not  be  talkin'  so  loud  and  him  tryin'  to  have  a 
bit  av  a  sleep.  [He  tiptoes  softly  to  the  side  of  the 


38    BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

bunk."]  Yank !  You'd  be  wantin'  a  drink  av  wather, 
maybe?  [YANK  does  not  reply.  DRISCOKL  bends 
over  and  looks  at  him.~\  It's  asleep  he  is,  sure 
enough.  His  breath  is  chokin'  in  his  throat  loike 
wather  gurglin'  in  a  poipe.  [He  comes  back 
quietly  and  sits  down.  Att  are  silent,  avoiding  each 
other's  eyes.~\ 

COCKY — [After  a  pause.]  Pore  devil!  It's  over 
the  side  for  'im,  Gawd  'elp  'im. 

DRISCOI/L — Stop  your  croakin' !  He's  not  dead 
yet  and,  praise  God,  he'll  have  many  a  long  day  yet 
before  him. 

SCOTTY — [Shaking  his  head  doubtfully.'}  He's 
bod,  mon,  he's  verry  bod. 

DAVIS — Lucky  he's  alive.  Many  a  man's  light 
woulda  gone  out  after  a  fall  like  that. 

OLSON — You  saw  him  fall? 

DAVIS — Right  next  to  him.  He  and  me  was  goin' 
down  in  number  two  hold  to  do  some  chippin'.  He 
puts  his  leg  over  careless-like  and  misses  the  ladder 
and  plumps  straight  down  to  the  bottom.  I  was 
scared  to  look  over  for  a  minute,  and  then  I  heard 
him  groan  and  I  scuttled  down  after  him.  He  was 
hurt  bad  inside,  ;f  or  the  blood  was  drippin'  from  the 
side  of  his  mouth.  He  was  groanin'  hard,  but  he 
never  let  a  word  out  of  him. 

COCKY — An'  you  blokes  remember  when  we  'auled 
'im  in  'ere?  Oh,  'ell,  'e  says,  oh,  'ell — like  that,  and 
nothink  else. 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF     39 

OLSON — Did  the  captain  know  where  he  iss 
hurted  ? 

COCKY — That  silly  ol*  josser!  Wot  the  'ell  would 
'e  know  abaht  anythink? 

SCOTTY — [Scornfully.]  He  fiddles  in  his  mouth 
wi'  a  bit  of  glass. 

DRISCOLL — [Angrily]  The  divil's  own  life  ut  is 
to  be  out  on  the  lonely  sea  wid  nothin'  betune  you 
and  a  grave  in  the  ocean  but  a  spindle-shanked, 
gray- whiskered  auld  fool  the  loike  av  him.  'Twas 
enough  to  make  a  saint  shwear  to  see  him  wid  his 
gold  watch  in  his  hand,  tryin'  to  look  as  wise  as  an 
owl  on  a  tree,  and  all  the  toime  he  not  knowin' 
whether  'twas  cholery  or  the  barber's  itch  was  the 
matther  wid  Yank. 

SCOTTY — [Sardonically]  He  gave  him  a  dose  of 
salts,  na  doot? 

DRISCOKL — Divil  a  thing  he  gave  him  at  all,  but 
looked  in  the  book  he  had  wid  him,  and  shook  his 
head,  and  walked  out  widout  sayin'  a  word,  the 
second  mate  afther  him  no  wiser  than  himself,  God's 
curse  on  the  two  av  thim ! 

COCKY — [After  a  pause]  Yank  was  a  good 
shipmate,  pore  beggar.  Lend  me  four  bob  in  Noo 
Yark,  'e  did. 

DRISCOI/L — [Warmly.]  A  good  shipmate  he  was 
and  is,  none  betther.  Ye  said  no  more  than  the 
truth,  Cocky.  Five  years  and  more  ut  is  since  first 
I  shipped  wid  him,  and  we've  stuck  together  iver 


40     BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

since  through  good  luck  and  bad.  Fights  we've  had, 
God  help  us,  but  'twas  only  when  we'd  a  bit  av  drink 
taken,  and  we  always  shook  hands  the  nixt  mornin'. 
Whativer  was  his  was  mine,  and  many's  the  toime 
I'd  a  been  on  the  beach  or  worse,  but  for  him.  And 

now [His  voice  trembles  as  he  fights  to  control 

his  emotion.]  Divil  take  me  if  I'm  not  startin'  to 
blubber  loike  an  auld  woman,  and  he  not  dead  at  all, 
but  goin'  to  live  many  a  long  year  yet,  maybe.  —7 — 
I  DAVIS — The  sleep'll  do  him  good.  He  seems  bet 
ter  now. 

OLSON — If  he  wude  eat  someting 

DRISCOLL — Wud  ye  have  him  be  eatin'  in  his  con- 
dishun?  Sure  it's  hard  enough  on  the  rest  av  us  wid 
nothin'  the  matther  wid  our  insides  to  be  stomachin' 
the  skoff  on  this  rusty  lime-juicer. 

SCOTTY — [Indignantly.]     It's  a  starvation  ship. 

DAVIS — Plenty  o'  work  and  no  food — and  the 
owners  ridin'  around  in  carriages ! 

OLSON — Hash,  hash!  Stew,  stew!  Marmalade, 
py  damn!  [He  spits  disgustedly.] 

COCKY — Bloody  swill!  Fit  only  for  swine  is  wot 
I  say. 

DRISCOKL — And  the  dishwather  they  disguise  wid 
the  name  av  tea!  And  the  putty  they  call  bread! 
My  belly  feels  loike  I'd  swalleyed  a  dozen  rivets  at 
the  thought  av  ut!  And  sea-biscuit  that'd  break 
the  teeth  av  a  lion  if  he  had  the  misfortune  to  take 
a  bite  at  one!  [Unconsciously  they  have  all  raised 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF     41 

their  voices,  forgetting  the  sick  man  in  their  sailor's 
delight  at  finding  something  to  grumble  about.] 

PAUL — [Swings  his  feet  over  the  side  of  his  "bunk, 
stops  playing  his  accordion,  and  says  slowly]  :  And 
rot-ten  po-tay-toes!  [He  starts  in  playing  again. 
The  sick  man  gives  a  groan  of  paw.] 

DRISCOLL — [Holding  up  his  hand.]  Shut  your 
mouths,  all  av  you.  "Tis  a  hell  av  a  thing  for  us 
to  be  complainin'  about  our  guts,  and  a  sick  man 
maybe  dyin'  listenin'  to  us.  [Gets  up  and  shakes  his 
fist  at  the  Norwegian.]  God  stiffen  you,  ye  square 
head  scut!  Put  down  that  organ  av  yours  or  I'll 
break  your  ugly  face  for  you.  Is  that  banshee 
schreechin'  fit  music  for  a  sick  man?  [The  Nor 
wegian  puts  his  accordion  in  the  bunk  and  lies  back 
and  closes  his  eyes.  DRISCOLL  goes  over  and  stands 
beside  YANK.  The  steamer's  whistle  sounds  particw- 
loud  in  the  silence.] 

DAVIS— -Damn  this  fog!  [Reaches  m  wider  a 
bunk  and  yanks  out  a  pair  of  seaboots,  which  he 
pulls  on.]  My  lookout  next,  too.  Must  be  nearly 
eight  bells,  boys.  [With  the  exception  of  OLSON,  all 
the  men  sitting  up  put  on  oilskins,  sou* westers,  sea- 
boots,  etc.,  in  preparation  -for  the  watch  on  deck. 
Olson  crawls  into  a  lower  bunk  on  the  right.] 

SCOTTY — My  wheel. 

OLSON — [Disgustedly.]  Nothin'  but  yust  dirty 
weather  all  dis  voyage.  I  yust  can't  sleep  when 


42    BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

weestle  blow.  [He  turns  his  back  to  the  light  and 
is  soon  fast  asleep  and  snoring.] 

SCOTTY — If  this  fog  keeps  up,  I'm  tellin*  je,  we'll 
no  be  in  Carrdiff  for  a  week  or  more. 

DRISCOLL — 'Twas  just  such  a  night  as  this  the 
auld  Dover  wint  down.  Just  about  this  toime  ut 
was,  too,  and  we  all  sittin'  round  in  the  fo'castle, 
Yank  beside  me,  whin  all  av  a  suddint  we  heard  a 
great  slitherin'  crash,  and  the  ship  heeled  over  till 
we  was  all  in  a  heap  on  wan  side.  What  came  afther 
I  disremimber  exactly,  except  'twas  a  hard  shift  to 
get  the  boats  over  the  side  before  the  auld  teakittle 
sank.  Yank  was  in  the  same  boat  wid  me,  and  sivin 
morthal  days  we  drifted  wid  scarcely  a  drop  of 
wather  or  a  bite  to  chew  on.  'Twas  Yank  here  that 
held  me  down  whin  I  wanted  to  jump  into  the  ocean, 
roarin'  mad  wid  the  thirst.  Picked  up  we  were  on 
the  same  day  wid  only  Yank  in  his  senses,  and  him 
steerin'  the  boat. 

COCKY — [Protestmgly.~\  Blimey  but  you're  a 
cheerful  blighter,  Driscoll!  Talkin'  abaht  ship 
wrecks  in  this  'ere  blushin'  fog.  '[YANK  groans  and 
stirs  uneasily,  opening  his  eyes.  DRISCOLL  hurries 
to  his  side.] 

DRISCOLL — Are  ye  feelin'  any  betther,  Yank? 

YANK — [In  a  weak  voice.]     No. 

DRISCOLL — Sure,  you  must  be.  You  look  as 
sthrong  as  an  ox.  [Appealing  to  the  others.]  Am 
I  tellin'  him  a  lie? 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF     43 

DAVIS — The  sleep's  done  you  good. 

COCKY — You'll  be  'avin  your  pint  of  beer  in  Car 
diff  this  day  week. 

SCOTTY — And  fish  and  chips,  mon! 

YANK- — [Peevishly.]  What're  yuh  all  lyin'  fur? 

D'yuh  think  I'm  scared  to [He  hesitates  as  if 

frightened  by  the  word  he  is  about  to  say.] 

DEISCOLL — Don't  be  thinkin'  such  things!  [The 
ship's  bell  is  heard  heavily  tolling  eight  times.  From 
the  fo'itcastle  head  above  the  voice  of  the  lookout 
rises  in  a  long  wail:  Aaall's  welll.  The  men  look  un~ 
certainly  at  YANK  as  if  undecided  whether  to  say 
good-by  or  not.] 

YANK — [In  an  agony  of  fear.]  Don't  leave  me, 
Dmsc !  I'm  dyin',  I  tell  yuh.  I  won't  stay  here 
alone  with  every  one  snorin'.  I'll  go  out  on  deck. 
[He  makes  a  feeble  attempt  to  rise,  but  sinks  back 
with  a  sharp  groan.  His  breath  comes  in  wheezy 
gasps.]  Don't  leave  me,  Drisc!  [His  face  grows 
white  and  his  head  -falls  back  with  a  jerk.] 

DRISCOLL — Don't  be  worryin',  Yank.  I'll  not 
move  a  step  out  av  here — and  let  that  divil  av  a 
bosun  curse  his  black  head  off.  You  speak  a  word 
to  the  bosun,  Cocky.  Tell  him  that  Yank  is  bad 
took  and  I'll  be  stayin'  wid  him  a  while  yet. 

COCKY — Right-o.  [COCKY,  DAVIS,  and  SCOTTY 
go  out  quietly.] 

COCKY — [From  the  alleyway.]  Gawd  blimey,  the 
fog's  thick  as  soup. 


44  BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

DRISCOI/L — Are  ye  satisfied  now,  Yank?  [Receiv 
ing  no  answer,  he  bends  over  the  still  form.]  He's 
fainted,  God  help  him !  [He  gets  a  tin  dipper  from 
the  bucket  and  bathes  YANK'S  forehead  with  the 
water.  YANK  shudders  and  opens  his  eyes.] 

YANK — [Slowly, .]  I  thought  I  was  goin'  then. 
Wha'  did  yuh  wanta  wake  me  up  fur? 

DRISCOI/L — [With  forced  gayety.]  Is  it  wishful 
for  heaven  ye  are? 

YANK — [Gloomily.'}     Hell,  I  guess. 

DRISCOLL — [Crossing  himself  involuntarily.'}  For 
the  love  av  the  saints  don't  be  talkin'  loike  that! 
You'd  give  a  man  the  creeps.  It's  chippin'  rust  on 
deck  you'll  be  in  a  day  or  two  wid  the  best  av  us.' 
[YANK  does  not  answer,  but  closes  his  eyes  wearily. 
The  seaman  who  has  been  on  lookout,  SMITTY,  a 
young  Englishman,  comes  in  and  takes  off  his  drip 
ping  oilskins.  While  he  is  doing  this  the  man  whose 
turn  at  the  wheel  has  been  relieved  enters.  He  is 
a  dark  burly  fellow  with  a  round  stupid  face.  The 
Englishman  steps  softly  over  to  DRISCOLL.  The 
other  crawls  into  a  lower  bunk.} 

SMITTY — [Whimpering.]    How's  Yank? 

DRISCOI/D — Betther.  Ask  him  yourself.  He's 
awake. 

YANK — I'm  all  right,  Smitty. 

SMITTY — Glad  to  hear  it,  Yank.  [He  crawls  to 
an  upper  bunk  and  is  soon  asleep.] 

IVAN — [The  stupid-faced  seaman  who  came  m  af- 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF     45 

ter  SMITTY  twists  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  sick 
man.]  You  feel  gude,  Jank? 

YANK — [Wearily.]     Yes,  Ivan. 

IVAN — Dot's  gude.  [He  rolls  over  on  his  side  and 
falls  asleep  immediately.] 

YANK — [After  a  pause  broken  only  by  snores — 
with  a  bitter  laugh.]  Good-by  and  good  luck  to 

the  lot  of  you!   ' 
,^>  ' 

/DRISCOLL — Is  ut  painin'  you  again? 

YANK — It  hurts  like  hell — here.  [He  points  to 
the  lower  part  of  his  chest  on  the  left  side.]  I  guess 
my  old  pump's  busted.  Ooohh !  [A  spasm  of  pain 
contracts  hfe  pale  features.  He  presses  his  hand  to 
his  side  and  writhes  on  the  thin  mattress  of  his  bunk. 
The  perspiration  stands  out  in  beads  on  his  fore 
head.] 

DRISCOLL—  [Terrified.]  Yank!  Yank!  What 
is  ut?  [Jumping  to  his  feet.]  I'll  run  for  the  cap 
tain.  [He  starts  for  the  doorway.] 

YANK — [Sitting  up  in  his  bunk,  frantic  with 
fear.]  Don't  leave  me,  Drisc!  For  God's  sake 
<lon't  leave  me  alone !  [He  leans  over  the  side  of  his 
bunk  and  spits.  DBJSCOLL  comes  back  to  him.] 
Blood!  Ugh! 

DRISCOLL — Blood  again!  I'd  best  be  gettin'  the 
captain. 

YANK — No,  no,  don't  leave  me !  If  yuh  do  I'll  git 
up  and  follow  you.  I  ain't  no  coward,  but  I'm 
scared  to  stay  here  with  all  of  them  asleep  and 


46    BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

snorin*.  [DRISCOLL,  not  'knowing  what  to  do,  sits 
down  on  the  bench  beside  him.  He  grows  calmer  and 
sinks  back  on  the  mattress.~\  The  captain  can't  do 
me  no  good,  yuh  know  it  yourself.  The  pain  ain't  so 
bad  now,  but  I  thought  it  had  me  then.  It  was  like  a 
buzz-saw  cuttin'  into  me. 

DRISCOLL — [Fiercely.]     God  blarst  ut! 

[The  captain  and  the  second  mate  of  the  steamer 
enter  the  forecastle.  The  captam  is  an  old  man 
with  gray  mustache  and  whiskers.  The  mate  is 
clean-shaven  and  middle-aged.  Both  are  dressed  in 
simple  blue  uniforms.] 

THE  CAPTAIN — [Taking  out  his  watch  and  feeling 
YANK'S  pulse]  And  how  is  the  sick  man? 

YANK — [Feebly.]     All  right,  sir. 

THE  CAPTAIN — And  the  pain  in  the  chest? 

YANK — It  still  hurts,  sir,  worse  than  ever. 

THE  CAPTAIN — [Taking  a  thermometer  from  his 
pocket  and  putting  it  into  YANK'S  mouth]  Here. 
Be  sure  and  keep  this  in  under  your  tongue,  not 
over  it. 

THE  MATE — [After  a  pause.]  Isn't  this  your 
watch  on  deck,  DRISCOI/L? 

DRISCOLL — Yes,  sorr,  but  Yank  was  fearin*  to  be 
alone,  and 

THE  CAPTAIN — That's  all  right,  Driscoll. 

DRISCOLL — Thank  ye,  sorr. 

THE  CAPTAIN — [Stares  at  his  watch  for  a  mo 
ment  or  so;  then  takes  the  thermometer  from  YANK'S 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF     47 

mouth  and  goes  to  the  lamp  to  read  it.  His  ex 
pression  grows  very  grave.  He  beckons  the  MATE 
and  DRISCOLL  to  the  corner  near  the  doorway. 
YANK  watches  them  furtively.  The  CAPTAIN  speaks 
in  a  low  voice  to  the  MATE.]  Way  up,  both  of  them. 
[To  DRISCOLL]  :  Has  he  been  spitting  blood  again? 

DRISCOLL — Not  much  for  the  hour  just  past,  sorr, 
but  before  that 

THE  CAPTAIN — A  great  deal? 

DRISCOLL — Yes,  sorr. 

THE  CAPTAIN — He  hasn't  eaten  anything? 

DRISCOLL — No,  sorr. 

THE  CAPTAIN — Did  he  drink  that  medicine  I  sent 
him? 

DRISCOLL — Yes,  sorr,  but  it  didn't  stay  down. 

THE  CAPTAIN — [Shaking  his  head.]  I'm  afraid 
— he's  very  weak.  I  can't  do  anything  else  for  him. 
It's  too  serious  for  me.  If  this  had  only  happened  a 
week  later  we'd  be  in  Cardiff  in  time  to 

DRISCOLL — Plaze  help  him  some  way,  sorr! 

THE  CAPTAIN — [Impatiently.]  But,  my  goocl 
man,  I'm  not  a  doctor.  [More  Jcindly  as  he  sees 
DRISCOLL'S  grief.]  You  and  he  have  been  shipmates 
a  long  time? 

DRISCOLL — Five  years  and  more,  sorr. 

THE  CAPTAIN — I  see.  Well,  don't  let  him  move. 
Keep  him  quiet  and  we'll  hope  for  the  best.  I'll  read 
the  matter  up  and  send  him  some  medicine,  some 
thing  to  ease  the  pain,  anyway.  [Goes  over  to 


48     BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

YANK.]  Keep  up  your  courage!  You'll  be  better 
to-morrow.  [He  breaks  down  lamely  before  YANK'S 
steady  gaze]  We'll  pull  you  through  all  right — 
and — hm — well — coming,  Robinson?  Dammit!  [He 
goes  out  hurriedly,  followed  by  the  MATE.]  J 
-•-  DRISCOLL — [Trying  to  conceal  his  anxiety.] 
Didn't  I  tell  you  you  wasn't  half  as  sick  as  you 
thought  you  was?  The  Captain'll  have  you  out  on 
deck  cursin'  and  swearin'  loike  a  trooper  before  the 
week  is  out. 

YANK — Don't  lie,  DRISC.  I  heard  what  he  said, 
and  if  I  didn't  I  c'd  tell  by  the  way  I  feel.  I  know 
what's  goin'  to  happen.  I'm  goin'  to [He  hesi 
tates  for  a  second — then  resolutely.]  I'm  goin'  to 
die,  that's  what,  and  the  sooner  the  better! 

DRISCOLL — [Wildly.]  No,  and  be  damned  to 
you,  you're  not.  I'll  not  let  you. 

YANK — It  ain't  no  use,  Drisc.  I  ain't  got  a 
chance,  but  I  ain't  scared.  Gimme  a  drink  of  water, 
will  yuh,  Drisc?  My  throat's  burnin'  up.  [DRIS 
COLL  brings  the  dipper  full  of  water  and  supports 
his  head  while  he  drinks  m  great  gulps] 

DRISCOLL — [Seeking  vainly  for  some  word  of  com 
fort]  Are  ye  feelin'  more  aisy  loike  now? 

YANK — Yes — now — when  I  know  it's  all  up.  [A 
pause]  You  must'nt  take  it  so  hard,  Drisc.  I 
was  just  thinkin'  it  ain't  as  bad  as  people  think — 
dyin'.  I  ain't  never  took  much  stock  in  the  truck 
them  sky-pilots  preach.  ^  I  ain't  never  had  religion ; 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF     49 

but  I  know  whatever  it  is  what  comes  after  it  can't 
be  no  worser'n  this.  I  don't  like  to  leave  you, 
Drisc,  but — that's  all. 

DRISCOLL — [With  a  groan.]  Lad,  lad,  don't  be 
talkin'. 

YANK — This  sailor  life  ain't  much  to  cry  about 
leavin' — just  one  ship  after  another,  hard  work, 
small  pay,  and  bum  grub ;  and  when  we  git  into  port, 
just  a  drunk  endin'  up  in  a  fight,  and  all  your 
money  gone,  and  then  ship  away  again.  Never 
meetin'  no  nice  people ;  never  gittin  outa  sailor  town, 
hardly,  in  any  port ;' travellin'  all  over  the  world 
and  never  seein'  none  of  it ;  without  no  one  to  care 
whether  you're  alive  or  dead.  [With  a  bitter  smile.] 
There  ain't  much  in  all  that  that'd  make  yuh  sorry 
to  lose  it,  Drisc. 

DRISCOLL — [Gloomily.]  It's  a  hell  av  a  life,  the 
sea. 

YANK — [Musingly.]  It  must  be  great  to  stay  on 
dry  land  all  your  life  and  have  a  farm  with  a  house 
of  your  own  with  cows  land  pigs  and  chickens,  'way 
in  the  middle  of  the  land  where  yuh'd  never  smell 
the  sea  or  see  a  ship.  It  must  be  great  to  have  a 
wife,  and  kids  to  play  with  at  night  after  supper 
when  your  work  was  done.  It  must  be  great  to  have 
a  home  of  your  own,  Drisc. 

DRISCOLL — [With  a  great  sigh.]  It  must,  surely ; 
but  what's  the  use  av  thinkin'  av  ut?  Such  things 
are  not  for  the  loikes  av  us. 


50    BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

YANK — Sea-farin'  is  all  right  when  you're  young 
and  don't  care,  but  we  ain't  chickens  no  more,  and  « «/ 1 
somehow,  I  dunno,  this  last  year  has  seemed  rotten, 
and  I've  had  a  hunch  I'd  quit — with  you,  of  course 
— and  we'd  save  our  coin,  and  go  to  Canada  or 
Argentine  or  some  place  and  git  a  farm,  just  a 
small  one,  just  enough  to  live  on.  I  never  told  yuh 
this  cause  I  thought  you'd  laugh  at  me. 

DBISCOLL — [Enthusiastically.]  Laugh  at  you, 
is  ut?  When  I'm  havin'  the  same  thoughts  myself, 
toime  afther  toime.  It's  a  grand  idea  and  we'll  be 
doin'  ut  sure  if  you'll  stop  your  crazy  notions — 
about — about  bein'  so  sick. 

YANK — [Sadly. ,]     Too  late.    We  shouldn'ta  made 

this  trip,  and  then >     How'd  all  the  fog  git  in 

here  ? 

DRISCOLL — Fog  ? 

YANK — Everything  looks  misty.  Must  be  my 
eyes  gittin'  weak,  I  guess.  What  was  we  talkin'  of 
a  minute  ago?  Oh,  yes,  a  farm.  It's  too  late.  [His 
mind  wandering]  Argentine,  did  I  say?  D'yuh 
remember  the  times  we've  had  in  Buenos  Aires  ?  The 
moving  pictures  in  Barracas?  Some  class  to  them, 
d'yuh  remember? 

DRISCOI/L — [With  satisfaction.']  I  do  that;  and 
so  does  the  piany  player.  He'll  not  be  f  orgettin'  the 
black  eye  I  gave  him  in  a  hurry. 

YANK — Remember  the  time  we  was  there  on  the 
beach  and  had  to  go  to  Tommy  Moore's  boarding 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF          51 

house  to  git  shipped?  And  he  sold  us  rotten  oil 
skins  and  seaboots  full  of  holes,  and  shipped  us  on 
a  skysail  yarder  round  the  Horn,  and  took  two 
months'  pay  for  it.  And  the  days  we  used  to  sit  on 
the  park  benches  along  the  Paseo  Colon  with  the 
vigilantes  lookin'  hard  at  us?  And  the  songs  at  the 
Sailor's  Opera  where  the  guy  played  ragtime — 
d'yuh  remember  them? 

DRISCOLL, — I  do,  surely. 

YANK — And  La  Plata — phew,  the  stink  of  the 
hides !  I  always  liked  Argentine — all  except  that 
booze,  cana.  ^How  drunk  we  used  to  git  on  that, 
remember? 

DRISCOLL — Cud  I  forget  ut?  My  head  pains  me 
at  the  menshun  av^that  divil's  brew. 

YANK — Remember  the  night  I  went  crazy  with 
the  heat  in  Singapore?  And  the  time  you  was 
pinched  by  the  cops  in  Port  Said?  And  the  time 
we  was  both  locked  up  in  Sydney  for  fightin'? 

DRISCOLL — I  do  so. 

YANK — And  that  fight  on  the  dock  at  Cape 
Town [His  voice  betrays  great  inward  per 
turbation.] 

DRISCOLL — [Hastily.']  Don't  be  thinkin'  av  that 
now.  'Tis  past  and  gone. 

YANK — D'yuh  think  He'll  hold  it  up  against  me? 

DRISCOLL—  [Mystified.]     Who's  that? 

YANK — God.     They  say  He  sees  everything.     He 


52  BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

must  know  it  was  done  in  fair  fight,  in  self-defense, 
don't  yuh  think? 

DEISCOLL — Av  course.  Ye  stabbed  him,  and  be 
damned  to  him,  for  the  skulkin'  swine  he  was,  afther 
him  tryin'  to  stick  you  in  the  back,  and  you  not 
suspectin'.  [Let  your  conscience  be  aisy.  I  wisht 
I  had  nothin'  blacker  than  that  on  my  sowl.  I'd  not 
be  afraid  av  the  angel  Gabriel  himself. 

YANK — [With  a  shudder.]  I  c'd  see  him  a  minute 
ago  with  the  blood  spurtin'  out  of  his  neck.  Ugh ! 

DRISCOKL — The  fever,  ut  is,  that  makes  you  see 
such  things.     Give  no  heed  to  ut. 
'    YANK — [Uncertainly.]      You    don't    think   He'll 
hold  it  up  agin  me — God,  I  mean. 

DRISCOKL — If  there's  justice  in  hiven,  no!  [YANK 
seems  comforted  by  this  assurance.] 

YANK — [After  a  pause.]  We  won't  reach  Car 
diff  for  a  week  at  least.  I'll  be  buried  at  sea. 

DRISCOI/L — [Putting  his  hands  over  his  ears.] 
Ssshh !  I  won't  listen  to  you. 

YANK — [As  if  he  had  not  heard  him.]  It's  as 
good  a  place  as  any  other,  I  s'pose — only  I  always 
wanted  to  be  buried  on  dry  land.  But  what  the 
hell'll  I  care— then?  [Fretfully.]  Why  should  it 
be  a  rotten  night  like  this^  with  that  damned  whistle 
blowin'  and  people  snorin'  all  round?  I  wish  the 
stars  was  out,  and  the  moon,  too ;  I  c'd  lie  out  on 
deck  and  look  at  them,  and  it'd  make  it  easier  to  go 
— somehow. 


BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF  53 

DRISCOLL — For  the  love  av  God  don't  be  talkin' 
loike  that ! 

YANK — Whatever  pay's  comin'  to  me  yuh  can 
divvy  up  with  the  rest  of  the  boys ;  and  you  take 
my  watch.  It  ain't  worth  much,  but  it's  all  I've  got. 

DRISCOLL — But  have  ye  no  relations  at  all  to  call 
your  own? 

YANK — No,  not  as  I  know  of.  One  thing  I  forgot : 
You  know  Fanny  the  barmaid  at  the  Red  Stork  in 
Cardiff? 

DRISCOLL — Sure,  and  who  doesn't? 

YANK — She's  been  good  to  me.  She  tried  to  lend 
me  half  a  crown  when  I  was  broke  there  last  trip. 
Buy  her  the  biggest  box  of  candy  yuh  c'n  find  in 
Cardiff.  [Breaking  dorm — in  a  choking  voice.] 
It's  hard  to  ship  on  this  voyage  I'm  goin'  on — alone ! 
[DRISCOLL  reaches  out  and  grasps  his  hand.  There 
is  a  pause,  during  which  both  fight  to  control  them 
selves.]  My  throat's  like  a  furnace.  [He  gasps  for 
air.]  Gimme  a  drink  of  water,  will  yuh,  Drisc? 
[DRISCOLL  gets  him  a  dipper  of  water.]  I  wish  this 
was  a  pint  of  beer.  Oooohh !  [He  chokes,  his  face 
convulsed  with  agony,  his  hands  tearing  at  his  shirt 
front.  The  dipper  falls  from  his  nerveless  fingers.] 

DRISCOLL — For  the  love  av  God,  what  is  ut, 
Yank? 

YANK — [Speaking  with  tremendous  difficulty.] 
S'long,  Drisc !  [He  stares  straight  in  front  of  him 
with  eyes  starting  from  their  sockets.]  Who's  that? 


54    BOUND  EAST  FOR  CARDIFF 

DRISCOLL— Who?    What? 

YANK — [Faintly.]  A  pretty  lady  dressed  in 
black.  [His  face  twitches  and  his  body  writhes  in  a 
final  spasm,  then  straightens  out  rigidly] 

DRISCOLL — [Pale  with  horror.]  Yank!  Yank! 
Say  a  word  to  me  for  the  love  av  hiven!  [He 
shrinks  away  from  the  bunk,  making  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  Then  comes  back  and  puts  a  trembling  hand 
on  YANK'S  chest  and  bends  closely  over  the  body] 

COCKY — [From  the  alleyway]  Oh,  Driscoll! 
Can  you  leave  Yank  for  arf  a  mo'  and  give  me  a 
'and?  y 

DRISCOLL — [With  a  great  sob]  Yank!  [He 
sinks  down  on  his  knees  beside  the  bunk,  his  head  on 
his  hands.  His  lips  move  in  some  half -remembered 
prayer] 

COCKY — [Enters,  his  oilskins  and  sou'wester  glis 
tening  with  drops  of  water]  The  fog's  lifted. 
[COCKY  sees  DRISCOLL  and  stands  staring  at  him 
with  open  mouth.  DRISCOLL  makes  the  sign  of  the 
cross  again] 

COCKY — [Mockingly]  Sayin'  'is  prayers  !  [He 
'catches  sight  of  the  still  figure  in  the  bunk  and  an 
expression  of  awed  understanding  comes  over  his 
•face.  He  takes  off  his  dripping  sou'wester  and 
stands,  scratching  his  head] 

COCKY — [In  a  hushed  whisper]     Gawd  blimey! 

[The  Curtain  Falls] 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

A  Play  In  One  Act 


CHARACTERS 

FAT  JOE,  proprietor  of  a  dive. 

NICK,  a  crimp. 

MAG,  a  barmaid. 

OLSON 

DRISCOI/L   I  Seamen  of  the  British  tramp  steamer, 

COCKY         I       Glencairn. 

IVAN 

KATE 

FREDA 

Two  ROUGHS 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 


SCENE — The  bar  of  a  low  dive  on  the  London  water 
front — a  squalid,  dingy  room  dmly  lighted  by 
kerosene  lamps  placed  in  brackets  on  the  walls. 
On  the  left,  the  bar.  In  front  of  it,  a  door  lead 
ing  to  a  side  room.  On  the  right,  tables  with 
chairs  around  them.  In  the  rear,  a  door  lead- 
mg  to  the  street. 

A  slovenly  barmaid  with  a  stupid  face  sod 
den  with  drink  is  mopping  off  the  bar.  Her 
arm  moves  back  and  forth  mechanically  and 
her  eyes  are  half  shut  a$  if  she  were  dozing  on 
her  feet.  At  the  far  end  of  the  bar  stands 
FAT  JOE,  the  proprietor,  a  gross  bulk  of  a  man 
with  an  enormous  stomach.  His  face  is  red 
and  bloated,  his  little  piggish  eyes  being  almost 
concealed  by  rolls  of  fat.  The  thick  fingers 
of  his  big  hands  are  loaded  with  cheap  rings 
and  a  gold  watch  chain  of  cable-like  propor 
tions  stretches  across  his  checked  waistcoat. 

At  one  of  the  tables,  front,  a  round-shoul 
dered  young  fellow  is  sitting,  smoking  a  ciga 
rette.    His  face  is  pasty,  his  mouth  weak,  his 
57 


58  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

eyes  shifting  and  cruel.    He  is   dressed  in  a 
shabby  suit,  which  must  have  once  been  cheaply 
flashy,  and  wears  a  muffler  and  cap. 
It  is  about  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening. 


Blimey  if  bizness  ain't  'arf 
slow  to-night.  I  donnow  wot's  'appened.  The  place 
is  like  a  bleedin'  tomb.  Where's  all  the  sailor  men, 
I'd  like  to  know?  [Raising  his  voice,  ,]  Ho,  you 
Nick!  fNicK  turns  around  listlessly.]  Wot's  the 
name  o'  that  wessel  put  in  at  the  dock  below  jest 
arter  noon? 

NICK  —  [Laconic  ally.  ,]  Glencairn  —  from  Bewne- 
zerry.  (Buenos  Aires). 

JOE  —  Ain't  the  crew  been  paid  orf  yet? 

NICK  —  Paid  orf  this  arternoon,  they  tole  me.  I 
'opped  on  board  of  'er  an'  seen  'em.  'Anded  'em 
some  o'  yer  cards,  I  did.  They  promised  faithful 
they'd  'appen  in  to-night  —  them  as  whose  time  was 
done. 

JOE  —  Any  two-year  men  to  be  paid  orf? 

NICK  —  Four  —  three  Britishers  an'  a  square-'ead. 

JOE  —  [Indignantly.']  An'  yer  popped  orf  an'  left 
'em?  An'  me  a-payin'  yer  to  'elp  an'  bring  'em  in 
'ere! 

NICK  —  [Grumblingly.]  Much  you  pays  me  !  An' 
I  ain't  slingin'  me  'ook  abaht  the  'ole  bleedin'  town 
fur  now  man.  See? 

JOE  —  I  ain't  speakin'  on'y  fur  meself.     Down't 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  59 

I  always  give  yer  yer  share,  fair  an'  square,  as  man 
to  man? 

NICK — [With  a  sneer. ~\    Yus — b'cause  you  'as  to. 

JOE — 'As  to?  Listen  to  'im!  There's  many'd  be 
'appy  to  'ave  your  berth,  me  man! 

NICK — Yus?  Wot  wiv  the  peelers  li'ble  to  put 
me  away  in  the  bloody  jail  fur  crimpin',  an'  all? 

JOE — [Indignantly.]     We  down't  do  no  crimpin'. 

NICK — [Sarcastically.]     Ho,  now!    Not  arf ! 

JOE — [A  bit  embarrassed.]  Well,  on'y  a  bit  now 
an'  agen  when  there  ain't  no  reg'lar  trade.  [To  hide 
his  confusion  he  turns  to  the  barmaid  angrily.  She 
is  still  mopping  off  the  bar,  her  chin  on  her  breast, 
half -asleep.]  'Ere,  me  gel,  we've  'ad  enough  o'  that. 
You  been  a-moppin',  an'  a-moppin',  an'  a-moppm* 
the  blarsted  bar  fur  a  'ole  'our.  'Op  it  aht  o'  this ! 
You'd  fair  guv  a  bloke  the  shakes  a-watchin'  yer. 

MAG — [Beginning  to  sniffle.]  Ow,  you  do 
frighten  me  when  you  'oiler  at  me,  Joe.  I  ain't  a 
bad  gel,  I  ain't.  Gawd  knows  I  tries  to  do  me  best 
fur  you.  [She  bursts  into  a  tempest  of  sobs.] 

JOE — [Roughly.]  Stop  yer  grizzlin'!  An'  'op 
it  aht  of  'ere! 

NICK — [Chuckling]  She's  drunk,  Joe.  Been 
'ittin'  the  gin,  eh,  Mag? 

MAG — [Ceases  crying  at  once  and  turns  on  him 
-furiously]  You  little  crab,  you!  Orter  wear  a 
muzzle,  you  ort !  A-openin'  of  your  ugly  mouth  to  a 
'onest  woman  what  ain't  never  done  you  no  'arm. 


60  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

[Commencing  to  sob  again.}  H'abusin'  me  like  a 
dawg  cos  I'm  sick  an'  orf  me  oats,  an'  all. 

JOE — Orf  yer  go,  me  gel !  Go  hupstairs  and  'a\e 
a  sleep.  I'll  wake  yer  if  I  wants  yer.  An'  wake  the 
two  gels  when  yer  goes  hup.  It's  'arpas'  nine  an' 
time  as  some  one  was  a-comin'  in,  tell  'em.  D'yer 
'ear  me? 

MAG — [Stumbling  around  the  bar  to  the  door  on 
left — sobbing.]  Yus,  yus,  I  'ears  you.  Gawd  knows 
wot's  goin'  to  'appen  to  me,  I'm  that  sick.  Much 
you  cares  if  I  dies,  down't  you?  [She  goes  out.] 

JOE — [Still  brooding  over  NICK'S  lack  of  dili 
gence — after  a  pause.]  Four  two-year  men  paid 
orf  wiv  their  bloody  pockets  full  o'  sovereigns — an' 
yer  lorst  'em.  [He  shakes  his  head  sorrowfully.] 

NICK — [Impatiently.]  Stow  it!  They  promised 
faithful  they'd  come,  I  tells  yer.  They'll  be  walkin' 
in  in  'arf  a  mo?.  There's  lots  o'  time  yet.  [In  a 
low  voice.]  'Ave  yer  got  the  drops?  We  might 
wanter  use  'em. 

JOE — [Taking  a  small  bottle  from  behind  the 
bar.]  Yus ;  'ere  it  is. 

NICK — [With  satisfaction.]  Righto!  [His 
shifty  eyes  peer  about  the  room  searchingly.  Then 
he  beckons  to  JOE,  who  comes  over  to  the  table  and 
sits  down.]  Reason  I  arst  yer  about  the  drops  was 
'cause  I  seen  the  capt'n  of  the  Amindra  this  arter- 
noon. 

JOE — The  Amindra?    Wot  ship  is  that? 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  61 

NICK — Bloody  windjammer — skys'l  yarder — full 
rigged — painted  white — been  layin'  at  the  dock 
above  'ere  fur  a  month.  You  knows  'er. 

JOE — Ho,  yus.     I  knows  now. 

NICK — The  capt'n  says  as  'e  wants  a  man  special 
bad — ter-night.  They  sails  at  daybreak  ter- 
morrer. 

JOE — There's  plenty  o'  'ands  lyin'  abaht  waitin* 
fur  ships,  I  should  fink. 

NICK — Not  fur  this  ship,  ole  buck.  The  capt'n 
an'  mate  are  bloody  slave-drivers,  an'  they're  bound 
down  round  the  'Orn.  They  'arf  starved  the  'ands 
on  the  larst  trip  'ere,  an'  no  one'll  dare  ship  on  'er. 
[After  a  pause.]  I  promised  the  capt'n  faithful 
I'd  get  'im  one,  and  ter-night. 

JOE — [Doubtfully.'}  An'  'ow  are  yer  goin*  to  git 
'im? 

NICK — [With  a  wink.']  I  was  thinkin'  as  one  of 
'em  from  the  Glencairn'd  do — them  as  was  paid  orf 
an'  is  comin'  'ere. 

JOE — [With  a  grin.~\  It'd  be  a  good  'aul,  that's 
the  troof.  [Frowning.]  If  they  comes  'ere. 

NICK — They'll  come,  an'  they'll  all  be  rotten 
drunk,  wait  an'  see.  [There  is  the  noise  of  loud,  bois 
terous  singing  from  the  street]  Sounds  like  'em, 
now.  [He  opens  the  street  door  and  looks  out] 
Gawd  blimey  if  it  ain't  the  four  of  'em!  [Turning  to 
Joe  in  triumph]  Naw,  what  d'yer  say?  They're 
lookin'  for  the  place.  I'll  go  aht  an'  tell  'em.  [He 


62  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

goes  out.  Joe  gets  into  position  behind  the  bar,  as 
suming  his  most  oily  smile.  A  moment  later  the  door 
is  opened,  admitting  DRISCOLL,  COCKY,  IVAN  and 
OLSON.  DRISCOLL  is  a  tall,  powerful  Irishman; 
COCKY,  a  wizened  runt  of  a  man  with  a  straggling 
gray  mustache;  IVAN,  a  hulking  oaf  of  a  peasant; 
OLSON,  a  stocky,  middle-aged  Swede  with,  round, 
childish  blue  eyes.  The  first  three  are  all  very 
drunk,  especially  IVAN,  who  is  managing  his  legs  with 
difficulty.  OLSON  is  perfectly  sober.  All  are  dressed 
in  their  ill-fitting  shore  clothes  and  look  very  un 
comfortable.  DRISCOLL  has  unbuttoned  his  stiff  col 
lar  and  its  ends  stick  out  sideways.  He  has  lost 
his  tie.  NICK  slinks  into  the  room  after  them  and 
sits  down  at  a  table  in  rear.  The  seamen  come  to 
the  table,  front.  ] 

JOE — [With  affected  heartiness.']  Ship  ahoy, 
mates !  'Appy  to  see  yer  'ome  safe  an'  sound. 

DRISCOLL — [Turns  round,  swaying  a  bit,  and 
peers  at  him  across  the  bar.~\  So  ut's  you,  is  ut? 
[He  looks  about  the  place  with  an  air  of  recogni 
tion.]  'An  the  same  damn  rat's-hole,  sure  enough. 
I  remimber  foive  or  six  years  back  'twas  here  I  was 
sthripped  av  me  last  shillin'  whin  I  was  aslape. 
[With  sudden  fury.~\  God  stiffen  ye,  come  none  av 

your  dog's  thricks  on  me  this  trip  or  I'll [He 

shakes  his  fist  at  JOE.] 

JOE — [Hastily  interrupting.']  Yer  must  be  mis- 
taiken.  This  is  a  'onest  place,  this  is. 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  63 

COCKY — [Derisively."]  Ho,  yus!  An'  you're  a 
bleedin'  angel,  I  s'pose? 

IVAN — [Vaguely  taking  off  his  derby  hat  and 
putting  it  on  again — plaintively.]  I  don'  li-ike  dis 
place. 

DRISCOLL — [Going  over  to  the  bar — as  genial  as 
he  was  furious  a  moment  before.]  Well,  no  matther, 
'tis  all  past  an'  gone  an'  forgot.  I'm  not  the  man 
to  be  holdin'  harrd  feelin's  on  me  first  night  ashore, 
an'  me  dhrunk  as  a  lord.  [He  holds  out  his  hand, 
which  JOE  takes  very  gingerly.]  We'll  all  be  havin' 
a  dhrink,  I'm  thinkin'.  Whiskey  for  the  three  av 
us — Irish  whiskey ! 

COCKY — [Mockingly.]  An'  a  glarse  o'  ginger 
beer  fur  our  blarsted  love-child  'ere.  [He  jerks  his 
thumb  at  OLSON.] 

OLSON — [With  a  good-natured  grin.]  I  bane  a 
good  boy  dis  night,  for  one  time. 

DRISCOLL — [Bellowing,  and  pointing  to  NICK  as 
JOE  brings  the  drinks  to  the  table.]  An'  see  what 
that  crimpin'  son  av  a  crimp'll  be  wantin' — an'  have 
your  own  pleasure.  [He  pulls  a  sovereign  out  of 
his  pocket  and  slams  it  on  the  bar.] 

NICK — Guv  me  a  pint  o'  beer,  Joe.  [JoE  draws 
the  beer  and  takes  it  down  to  the  far  end  of  the  bar. 
NICK  comes  over  to  get  it  and  JOE  gives  him  a  sig 
nificant  wink  and  nods  toward  the  door  on  the  left. 
NICK  signals  back  that  he  understands.] 

COCKY — [Drink  in  hand — impatiently.]    I'm  that 


64  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

bloody    dry!       [Lifting    his    glass    to    DRISCOLL.] 
Cheero,  ole  dear,  cheero! 

DRISCOLL — [Pocketing  his  change  without  look 
ing  at  it.]  A  toast  for  ye:  Hell  roast  that  divil  av 
a  bo'sun!  [He  drinks.] 

COCKY — Righto!  Gawd  strike  'im  blind!  [He 
drains  his  glass.] 

IVAN — [Half -asleep.]  Dot's  gude.  [He  tosses 
down  his  drink  in  one  gulp.  OLSON  sips  his  ginger 
ale.  NICK  takes  a  swallow  of  his  beer  and  then  comes 
round  the  bar  and  goes  out  the  door  on  left.] 

COCKY — [Producing  a  sovereign.]  Ho  there,  you 
Fatty!  Guv  us  another! 

JOE — The  saime,  mates? 

COCKY — Yus. 

DRISCOLL — No,  ye  scut !  I'll  be  havin'  a  pint  av 
beer.  I'm  dhry  as  a  loime  kiln. 

IVAN — [Suddenly  getting  to  his  feet  in  a  befud 
dled  manner  and  nearly  upsetting  the  table.]  I  don' 
li-ike  dis  place!  I  wan'  see  girls — plenty  girls. 
[Pathetically.]  I  don't  li-ike  dis  place.  I  wan' 
dance  with  girl. 

DRISCOLL — [Pushing  him  back  on  his  chair  with 
a  thud.]  Shut  up,  ye  Rooshan  baboon!  A  foine 
Romeo  you'd  make  in  your  condishun.  [!VAN  blub 
bers  some  incoherent  protest — then  suddenly  falls 
asleep.] 

JOE — [Bringing  the  drinks — looks  at  OLSON.] 
An'  you,  matey? 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  65 

OLSON — [Shaking  his  head.]  Noting  dis  time, 
thank  you. 

COCKY — [Mockingly.]  A-saivin'  of  'is  money,  *e 
is !  Goin'  back  to  'ome  an'  mother.  Goin'  to  buy  a 
bloomin'  farm  an'  punch  the  blarsted  dirt,  that's  wot 
'e  is !  [Spitting  disgustedly.]  There's  a  funny  bird 
of  a  sailor  man  for  yer,  Gawd  blimey ! 

OLSON — [Wearing  the  same  good-natured  grin.~\ 
Yust  what  I  like,  Cocky.  I  wus  on  farm  long  time 
when  I  wus  kid. 

DRISCOLL — Lave  him  alone,  ye  bloody  insect! 
'Tis  a  foine  sight  to  see  a  man  wid  some  sense  in 
his  head  instead  av  a  damn  fool  the  loike  av  us.  I 
only  wisht  I'd  a  mother  alive  to  call  me  own.  I'd 
not  be  dhrunk  in  this  divil's  hole  this  minute,  maybe. 

COCKY — [Commencing  to  weep  dolorously.]  Ow, 
down't  talk,  Drisc!  I  can't  bear  to  'ear  you.  I 
ain't  never  'ad  no  mother,  I  ain't — 

DRISCOLL — Shut  up,  ye  ape,  an'  don't  be  makin' 
that  squealin'.  If  ye  cud  see  your  ugly  face,  wid 
the  big  red  nose  av  ye  all  screwed  up  in  a  knot, 
ye'd  never  shed  a  tear  the  rist  av  your  loife.  [Roar 
ing  into  song.]  We  ar-re  the  byes  av  We-e-exford 
who  fought  wid  hearrt  an'  hand !  [Speaking.]  To 
hell  wid  Ulster!  [He  drinks  and  the  others  follow 
his  example.]  An'  I'll  strip  to  any  man  in  the  city 
av  London  won't  dhrink  to  that  toast.  [He  glares 
truculently  at  JOE,  who  immediately  downs  his  beer. 
NICK  enters  again  from  the  door  on  the  left  and 


66  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

comes  up  to  JOE  and  whispers  in  his  ear.  The  lat 
ter  nods  with  satisfaction.] 

DRISCOLL — [Glowering  at  them]  What  divil's 
thrick  are  ye  up  to  now,  the  two  av  ye?  [He  -flour 
ishes  a  brawny  fist.]  Play  fair  wid  us  or  ye  deal 
wid  me! 

JOE — [Hastily]  No  trick,  shipmate !  May  Gawd 
kill  me  if  that  ain't  troof ! 

NICK — [Indicating  IVAN,  who  is  snoring]  On'y 
your  mate  there  was  arskin'  fur  gels  an'  I  thorght 
as  'ow  yer'd  like  'em  to  come  dawhn  and  'ave  a  wet 
wiv  yer. 

JOE — [With  a  smirking  wink]  Pretty,  'olesome 
gels  they  be,  ain't  they,  Nick?" 

NICK — Yus. 

COCKY — Aar!  I  knows  the  gels  you  'as,  not  'arf ! 
They'd  fair  blind  yer,  they're  that  'omely.  None 
of  yer  bloomin'  gels  fur  me,  ole  Fatty.  Me  an* 
Drisc  knows  a  place,  down't  we,  Drisc?" 

DRISCOLL — Divil  a  lie,  we  do.  An'  we'll  be  afther 
goin'  there  in  a  minute.  There's  music  there  an'  a 
bit  av  a  dance  to  liven  a  man. 

JOE — Nick,  'ere,  can  play  yer  a  tune,  can't  yer, 
Nick? 

NICK — Yus. 

JOE — An*  yer  can  'ave  a  dance  in  the  side  room 
'ere. 

DRISCOLL — Hurroo!  Now  you're  talkin*.  [The 
two  women,  FREDA  and  KATE,  enter  from  the  left. 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  67 

FREDA  is  a  little,  sallows-faced  blonde.  KATE  is 
stout  and  dark.} 

COCKY — [In  a  loud  aside  to  DRISCOLL.]  Gawd 
blimey,  look  at  'em!  Ain't  they  'orrible?  [The 
women  come  forward  to  the  table,  wearing  their  best 
set  smiles.'] 

FREDA — [In  a  raspy  voice. ~\     'Ullo,  mates. 

KATE — 'Ad  a  good  voyage? 

DRISCOLL — Rotten;  but  no  matther.  Welcome, 
as  the  sayin'  is,  an'  sit  down,  an'  what'll  ye  be  takin' 
for  your  thirst?  [To  KATE.]  You'll  be  sittin'  by 
me,  darlin' — what's  your  name? 

KATE — [With  a  stupid  grin.}  Kate.  [She 
stands  by  his  chair. ~\ 

DRISCOLL — [Putting  his  arm  around  her."]  A 
good  Irish  name,  but  you're  English  by  the  trim  av 
ye,  an'  be  damned  to  you.  But  no  matther.  Ut's 
fat  ye  are,  Katy  dear,  an'  I  never  cud  endure  skinny 
wimin.  [FREDA  favors  him  with  a  viperish  glance 
and  sits  down  by  OLSON.]  What'll  ye  have? 

OLSON — No,  Drisc.  Dis  one  bane  on  me.  [He 
takes  out  a  roll  of  notes  from  his  inside  pocket  and 
lays  one  on  the  table.  JOE,  NICK,  and  the  women 
look  at  the  money  with  greedy  eyes.  IVAN  gives  a 
particularly  violent  snore. ^ 

FREDA — Waike  up  your  fren'.  Gawd,  'ow  I  'ates 
to  'ear  snorin*. 

DRISCOLL — [Springing  to  action,  smashes  IVAN'S 
derby  over  his  ears.}  D'you  hear  the  lady  talkin* 


68  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

to  ye,  ye  Rooshan  swab?  [The  only  reply  to  this 
is  a  snore.  DRISCOLL  pulls  the  battered  remains  of 
the  derby  off  IVAN'S  head  and  smashes  it  back 
again.'}  Arise  an' shine,  ye  dhrunken  swine !  [An 
other  snore.  The  women  giggle.  DRISCOLL  throws 
the  beer  left  in  his  glass  into  IVAN'S  face.  The  Rus 
sian  comes  to  in  a  flash,  spluttering.  There  is  a 
roar  of  laughter.] 

IVAN — [Indignantly.']  I  tell  you — dot's  some- 
ting  I  don'  li-ike ! 

COCKY — Down't  waste  good  beer,  Drisc. 

IVAN — [Grumblingly.]  I  tell  you — dot  is  not 
ri-ight. 

DRISCOLL — Ut's  your  own  doin',  Ivan.  Ye  was 
moanin'  for  girrls  an'  whin  they  come  you  sit  grunt- 
in'  loike  a  pig  in  a  sty.  Have  ye  no  manners? 
[IVAN  seems  to  see  the  women  for  the  first  time  and 
grins  foolishly.] 

KATE — [Laughing  at  him.]  Cheero,  ole  chum, 
'ows  Russha? 

IVAN — [Greatli)  pleased — putting  his  hand  in  his 
pocket.']  I  buy  a  drink. 

OLSON — No;  dis  one  bane  on  me.  [To  JOE.] 
Hey,  you  faller!" 

JOE— Wot'll  it  be,  Kate?" 

KATE — Gin. 

FREDA — Brandy. 

DRISCOLL — An'  Irish  whiskey  for  the  rist  av  us — 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  69 

wid  the  excipshun  av  our  timperance  friend,  God 
pity  him! 

FREDA — [To  OLSON.]     You  ain't  drinkin'? 

OLSON — [Half -ashamed.']     No. 

FREDA — [With  a  seductive  smile.']  I  down't 
blame  yer.  You  got  sense,  you  'ave.  I  on'y  tike 
a  nip  o'  brandy  now  an'  agen  fur  my  'ealth.  [JoE 
brings  the  drinks  and  OLSON'S  change.  COCKY  gets 
unsteadily  to  his  -feet  and  raises  his  glass  in  the  air.] 

COCKY — 'Ere's  a  toff  toast  for  yer:  The  ladies, 
Gawd —  [He  hesitates — then  adds  in  a  grudging 
tone.] — bless  'em. 

KATE—  [With  a  silly  giggle.}  Oo-er!  That 
wasn't  what  you  was  goin'  to  say,  you  bad  Cocky, 
you!  [They  all  drink.'} 

DRISCOLL — [To  NICK.]  Where's  the  tune  ye  was 
promisin'  to  give  us? 

NICK — Come  ahn  in  the  side  'ere  an'  you'll  'ear  it. 

DRISCOLL — [Getting  up.]  Come  on,  all  av  ye. 
We'll  have  a  tune  an'  a  dance  if  I'm  not  too  dhrunk 
to  dance,  God  help  me.  [COCKY  and  IVAN  stagger 
to  their  -feet.  IVAN  can  hardly  stand.  He  is  leer 
ing  at  KATE  and  snickering  to  himself  in  a  maudlin 
fashion.  The  three,  led  by  NICK,  go  out  the  door  on 
the  left.  KATE  follows  them.  OLSON  and  FREDA 
remain  seated.] 

COCKY — [Calling  over  his  shoulder.]  Come  on 
an'  dance,  Ollie. 

OLSON — Yes,   I   come.     [He   starts    to   get    up. 


70  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

From  the  side  room  comes  the  sound  of  an  accordion 
and  a  boisterous  whoop  from  DRISCOLL,  followed  by 
a  heavy  stamping  of  feet.] 

FREDA — Ow,  down't  go  in  there.  Stay  'ere  an' 
'ave  a  talk  wiv  me.  They're  all  drunk  an'  you  ain't 
drinkin'.  [With  a  smile  up  into  his  face.]  I'll 
think  yer  don't  like  me  if  yer  goes  in  there. 

OLSON — [Confused.]  You  wus  wrong,  Miss 
Freda.  I  don't — I  mean  I  do  like  you. 

FREDA — [Smiling — puts  her  hand  over  his  on  the 
table.]  An'  I  likes  you.  Yer  a  genelman.  You 
don't  get  drunk  an'  hinsult  poor  gels  wot  'as  a  'ard 
an'  uneppy  life. 

OLSON — [Pleased  but  still  more  confused — wrig 
gling  his  feet.]  I  bane  drunk  many  time,  Miss 
Freda. 

FREDA — Then  why  ain't  yer  drinkin'  now?  [She 
exchanges  a  quick,  questioning  glance  with  JOE,  who 
nods  back  at  her — then  she  continues  persuasively.] 
Tell  me  somethin'  abaht  yeself. 

OLSON — [With,  a  grin.]  There  ain't  noting  to 
say,  Miss  Freda.  I  bane  poor  devil  sailor  man, 
dat's  all. 

FREDA — Where  was  you  born — Norway?  [OLSON 
shakes  his  head.]  Denmark? 

OLSON — No.     You  guess  once  more. 

FREDA — Then  it  must  be  Sweden. 

OLSON — Yes.     I  wus  born  in  Stockholm. 

FREDA — [Pretending   great    delight.]     Ow,   ain't 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  71 

that  funny!     I  was  born  there,  too — in  Stockholm. 

OLSON — [Astonished.]     You  wus  born  in  Sweden? 

FREDA — Yes;  you  wouldn't  think  it,  but  it's 
Gawd's  troof.  [She  claps  her  hands  delightedly.'] 

OLSON — [Beaming  all  over.]  You  speak  Swed 
ish? 

FREDA — [Trying  to  smile  sadly. ~\  Now.  Y'see 
my  ole  man  an'  woman  come  'ere  to  England  when 
I  was  on'y  a  baby  an'  they  was  speakin'  English 
b'fore  I  was  old  enough  to  learn.  Sow  I  never 
knew  Swedish.  [Sadly.]  Wisht  I  'ad!  [With  a 
smile.]  We'd  'ave  a  bloomin'  lark  of  it  if  I  'ad, 
wouldn't  we? 

OLSON — It  sound  nice  to  hear  the  old  talk  yust 
once  in  a  time. 

FREDA — Righto !  No  place  like  yer  'ome,  I  says. 
Are  yer  goin'  up  to — to  Stockholm  b'fore  yer  ships 
away  agen? 

OLSON — Yes.  I  go  home  from  here  to  Stockholm. 
[Proudly.]  As  passenger! 

FREDA — An'  you'll  git  another  ship  up  there  arter 
you've  'ad  a  vacation? 

OLSON — No.  I  don't  never  ship  on  sea  no  more. 
I  got  all  sea  I  want  for  my  life — too  much  hard 
work  for  little  money.  Yust  work,  work,  work  on 
ship.  I  don't  want  more. 

FREDA — Ow,  I  see.  That's  why  you  give  up 
drinkin'. 


72  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

OLSON — Yes.  {With  a  grin.]  If  I  drink  I  yust 
get  drunk  and  spend  all  money. 

FREDA — But  if  you  ain't  gointer  be  a  sailor  no 
more,  what'll  yer  do  ?  You  been  a  sailor  all  yer  life, 
ain't  ^  *r? 

OLSON — No.  I  work  on  farm  till  I  am  eighteen. 
I  like  it,  too — it's  nice — work  on  farm. 

FREDA — But  ain't  Stockholm  a  city  same's  Lon 
don?  Ain't  no  farms  there,  is  there? 

OLSON — We  live — my  brother  and  mother  live — 
my  father  iss  dead — on  farm  yust  a  little  way  from 
Stockholm.  I  have  plenty  money,  now.  I  go  back 
with  two  years'  pay  and  buy  more  land  yet;  work 
on  farm.  [Grinning.]  No  more  sea,  no  more  bum 
grub,  no  more  storms — yust  nice  work. 

FREDA — Ow,  ain't  that  luv'ly !  I  s'pose  you'll  be 
gittin'  married,  too? 

OLSON — [Very  much  confused.]  I  don't  know.  I 
like  to,  if  I  find  nice  girl,  maybe. 

FREDA — Ain't  yer  got  some  gel  back  in  Stock 
holm?  I  bet  yer  'as. 

OLSON — No.  I  got  nice  girl  once  before  I  go  on 
sea.  But  I  go  on  ship,  and  I  don't  come  back,  and 
she  marry  other  faller.  [He  grins  sheepishly.] 

FREDA — Well,  it's  nice  for  yer  to  be  goin'  'ome, 
anyway. 

OLSON — Yes,  I  tank  so.  [There  is  a  crash  from 
the  room  on  left  and  the  music  abruptly  stops.  A 
moment  later  COCKY  and  DRISCOLL  appear,  support- 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  73 

ing  the  inert  form  of  IVAN  between  them.  He  is  in 
the  last  stage  of  intoxication,  unable  to  move  a  mus 
cle.  NICK  follows  them  and  sits  down  at  the  table 
in  rear.] 

DRISCOLL — [As  they  zigzag  up  to  the  bar.] 
Ut's  dead  he  is,  I'm  thinkin',  for  he's  as  limp  as  a 
'blarsted  corpse. 

COCKY — [Puffing.]     Gawd,  'e  ain't  'arf  'eavy! 

DRISCOLL — [Slapping  IVAN'S  face  with  his  free 
hand.]  Wake  up,  ye  divil,  ye.  Ut's  no  use. 
Gabriel's  trumpet  itself  cudn't  rouse  him.  [To 
JOE.]  Give  us  a  dhrink  for  I'm  perishing  wid  the 
thirst.  'Tis  harrd  worrk,  this. 

JOE — Whiskey  ? 

DRISCOLL — Irish  whiskey,  ye  swab.  [He  puts 
down  a  coin  on  the  bar.  JOE  serves  COCKY  and 
DRISCOLL.  They  drink  and  then  swerve  over  to 
OLSON'S  table.] 

OLSON — Sit  down  and  rest  for  time,  Drisc. 

DRISCOLL — No,  Ollie,  we'll  be  takin'  this  lad  home 
to  his  bed.  Ut's  late  for  wan  so  young  to  be  out 
in  the  night.  An'  I'd  not  trust  him  in  this  hole  as 
dhrunk  as  he  is,  an'  him  wid  a  full  pay  day  on  him. 
[Shaking  his  fist  at  JOE.]  Oho,  I  know  your  games, 
me  sonny  bye ! 

JOE — [With  an  air  of  grievance.]  There  yer 
goes  again — hinsultin'  a  'onest  man ! 

COCKY — Ho,  listen  to  'im!  Guv  'im  a  shove  in 
the  marf,  Drisc. 


74  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

OLSON — [Anxious  to  avoid  a  fight — getting  up.] 
I  help  you  take  Ivan  to  boarding  house. 

FREDA — [Protestingly.]  Ow,  you  ain't  gointer 
leave  me,  are  yer?  An'  we  'avin'  sech  a  nice  talk, 
an'  all. 

DRISCOLL — [With  a  wink]  Ye  hear  what  the 
lady  says,  Ollie.  Ye'd  best  stay  here,  me  timperance 
lady's  man.  An'  we  need  no  help.  'Tis  only  a  bit 
av  a  way  and  we're  two  strong  men  if  we  are  dhrunk. 
Ut's  no  hard  shift  to  take  the  remains  home.  But 
ye  can  open  the  door  for  us,  Ollie.  [OLSON  goes  to 
the  door  and  opens  it.]  Come  on,  Cocky,  an'  don't 
be  fallin'  aslape  yourself.  [They  lurch  toward  the 
door.  As  they  go  out  DRISCOLL  shouts  back  over  his 
shoulder.]  We'll  be  comin'  back  in  a  short  time, 
surely.  So  wait  here  for  us,  Ollie. 

OLSON — All  right.  I  wait  here,  Drisc.  [He 
stands  in  the  doorway  uncertainly.  JOE  makes  vio 
lent  signs  to  FREDA  to  bring  him  back.  She  goes  over 
and  puts  her  arm  around  OLSON'S  shoulder.  JOE 
motions  to  NICK  to  come  to  the  bar.  They  whisper 
together  excitedly. ] 

FREDA — [Coaxingly.]  You  ain't  gointer  leave 
me,  are  yer,  dearie?  [Then  irritably.']  Fur  Gawd's 
sake,  shet  that  door!  I'm  fair  freezin'  to  death  wiv 
the  fog.  [OLSON  comes  to  himself  with  a  start  and 
shuts  the  door.] 

OLSON — [Humbly.]     Excuse  me,  Miss  Freda. 

FREDA — [Leading  him  back  to  the  table — cough- 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  73 

ing.]  Buy  me  a  drink  o'  brandy,  will  yer?  I'm 
sow  cold. 

OLSON — All  you  want,  Miss  Freda,  all  you  want. 
[To  JOE,  who  is  still  whispering  instructions  to 
NICK.]  Hey,  Yoe!  Brandy  for  Miss  Freda.  [He 
lays  a  coin  on  the  table.] 

JOE — Righto!  [He  pours  out  her  drink  and 
brings  it  to  the  table.]  'Avin'  somethink  yeself, 
shipmate? 

OLSON — No.  I  don't  tank  so.  [He  points  to  his 
glass  with  a  grin.]  Dis  iss  only  belly-wash,  no? 
[He  laughs.] 

JOE — [Hopefully.]     'Ave  a  man's  drink. 

OLSON — I  would  like  to — but  no.  If  I  drink  one 
I  want  drink  one  tousand.  [He  laughs  again.] 

FREDA — [Responding  to  a  vicious  nudge  from 
JOE'S  elbow.]  Ow,  tike  somethin'.  I  ain't  gointer 
drink  all  be  meself. 

OLSON — Den  give  me  a  little  yinger  beer — small 
one.  [JoE  goes  back  of  the  bar,  making  a  sign  to 
NICK  to  go  to  their  table.  NICK  does  so  and  stands 
so  that  the  sailor  cannot  see  what  JOE  is  doing.] 

NICK — [To  make  talk.]  Where's  yer  mates 
popped  orf  ter  ?  [  JOE  pours  the  contents  of  the  lit 
tle  bottle  into  OLSON'S  glass  of  ginger  beer.]  — 

OLSON — Dey  take  Ivan,  dat  drunk  faller,  to  bed. 
They  come  back.  [  JOE  brings  OLSON'S  drink  to  the 
table  and  sets  it  before  him.] 


(76  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

JOE — [To  NICK — angrily.]  'Op  it,  will  yer? 
There  ain't  no  time  to  be  dawdlin'.  See  ?  'Urry ! 

NICK — Down't  worry,  ole  bird,  I'm  orf.  [He 
hurries  out  the  door.  JOE  returns  to  his  place  be 
hind  the  bar.] 

OLSON — [After  a  pause — worriedly.]  I  tank  I 
should  go  after  dem.  Cocky  iss  very  drunk,  too, 
and  Drisc 

FREDA — Aar !  The  big  Irish  is  all  right.  Don't 
yer  'ear  'im  say  as  'ow  they'd  surely  come  back  'ere, 
an'  fur  you  to  wait  fur  'em? 

OLSON — Yes;  but  if  dey  don't  come  soon  I  tank 
I  go  see  if  dey  are  in  boarding  house  all  right. 

FREDA — Where  is  the  boardin'  'ouse? 

OLSON — Yust  little  way  back  from  street  here. 

FREDA — You  stayin'  there,  too? 

OLSON — Yes — until  steamer  sail  for  Stockholm — 
in  two  day. 

FREDA — [She  is  alternately  looking  at  JOE  and 
feverishly  trying  to  keep  OLSON  talking  so  he  will 
forget  about  going  away  after  the  others.]  Yer 
mother  won't  be  arf  glad  to  see  yer  agen,  will  she? 
[OLSON  smiles.]  Does  she  know  yer  comin'? 

OLSON — No.  I  tought  I  would  yust  give  her  sur 
prise.  I  write  to  her  from  Bonos  Eres  but  I  don't 
tell  her  I  come  home. 

FREDA — Must  be  old,  ain't  she,  yer  ole  lady? 

OLSON — She  iss  eighty-two.  [He  smiles  reminis- 
cently.]  You  know,  Miss  Freda,  I  don't  see  my 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  77 

mother  or  my  brother  in — let  me  tank —  [He 
counts  laboriously  on  his  fingers.]  must  be  more 
than  ten  year.  I  write  once  in  while  and  she  write 
many  time;  and  my  brother  he  write  me,  too.  My 
mother  say  in  all  letter  I  should  come  home  right 
away.  My  brother  he  write  same  ting,  too.  He 
want  me  to  help  him  on  farm.  I  write  back  always 
I  come  soon;  and  I  mean  all  time  to  go  back  home 
at  end  of  voyage.  But  I  come  ashore,  I  take  one 
drink,  I  take  many  drinks,  I  get  drunk,  I  spend  all 
money,  I  have  to  ship  away  for  other  voyage.  So 
dis  time  I  say  to  myself:  Don't  drink  one  drink, 
Ollie,  or,  sure,  you  don't  get  home.  And  I  want 
go  home  dis  time.  I  feel  homesick  for  farm  and  to 
see  my  people  again.  [He  smiles.]  Yust  like  little 
boy,  I  feel  homesick.  Dat's  why  I  don't  drink  not 
ing  to-night  but  dis — belly-wash!  [He  roars  with 
childish  laughter,  then  suddenly  becomes  serious.] 
You  know,  Miss  Freda,  my  mother  get  very  old, 
and  I  want  see  her.  She  might  die  and  I  would 

never 

FREDA — [Moved  a  lot  in  spite  of  herself.]  Ow, 
don't  talk  like  that!  I  jest  'ates  to  'ear  any  one 
speakin'  abaht  dyin'.  [The  door  to  the  street  is 
opened  and  NICK  enters,  followed  by  two  rough- 
looking,  shabbily-dressed  men,  wearing  mufflers,  with 
caps  pulled  down  over  tlieir  eyes.  They  sit  at  the 
table  nearest  to  the  door.  JOE  brings  them  three 


78  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

beers,  and  there  is  a  whispered  consultation,  with 
many  glances  in  the  direction  of  OLSON.] 

OLSON — [Starting  to  get  up — worriedly.']  I 
tank  I  go  round  to  boarding  house.  I  tank  some- 
ting  go  wrong  with  Drisc  and  Cocky. 

FREDA — Ow,  down't  go.  They  kin  take  care  of 
they  selves.  They  ain't  babies.  Wait  'arf  a  mo*. 
You  ain't  'ad  yer  drink  yet. 

JOE — [Coming  hastily  over  to  the  table,  indicates 
the  men  in  the  rear  with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb.]  One 
of  them  blokes  wants  yer  to  'a,ve  a  wet  wiv  'im. 

FREDA — Righto!  [To  OLSON.]  Let's  drink  this. 
[She  raises  her  glass.  He  does  the  same.]  'Ere's  a 
toast  fur  yer :  Success  to  yer  bloomnr  farm  an'  may 
yer  live  long  an'  'appy  on  it.  Skoal!  [She  tosses 
down  her  brandy.  He  swallows  half  his  glass  of 
ginger  beer  and  makes  a  wry  face.] 

OLSON — Skoal !     [He  puts  down  his  glass.] 

FREDA — [With  feigned  indignation.]  Down't 
yer  like  my  toast? 

OLSON — [Grinning.]  Yes.  It  iss  very  kind, 
Miss  Freda. 

FREDA — Then  drink  it  all  like  I  done. 

OLSON — Well [He  gulps  down  the  rest.] 

Dere!  [He  laughs.] 

FREDA — Done  like  a  sport! 

ONE  or  THE  ROUGHS — [With  a  laugh.]  Amindra, 
ahoy! 

NICK —  [  Warningly.  ]     Sssshh  1 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  79 

OLSON — [Turns  around  in  his  chair. ]  Amindra? 
Iss  she  in  port?  I  sail  on  her  once  long  time  ago — 
three  mast,  full  rig,  skys'l  yarder?  Iss  dat  ship 
you  mean? 

THE  ROUGH — [Grinning.]     Yus;  right  you  are. 

OLSON — [Angrily. ,]  I  know  dat  damn  ship' — 
worst  ship  dat  sail  to  sea.  Rotten  grub  and  dey 
make  you  work  all  time — and  the  Captain  and  Mate 
wus  Bluenose  devils.  No  sailor  who  know  anyting 
ever  ship  on  her.  Where  iss  she  bound  from  here? 

THE  ROUGH — Round  Cape  'Orn — sails  at  day 
break. 

OLSON — Py  yingo,  I  pity  poor  fallers  make  dat 
trip  round  Cape  Stiff  dis  time  year.  I  bet  you 
some  of  dem  never  see  port  once  again.  [ He  passes 
his  hand  over  his  eyes  In  a  dazed  way.  His  voice 
grows  weaker. 1  Py  golly,  I  feel  dizzy.  All  the 
room  go  round  and  round  like  I  wus  drunk.  [He 
gets  weakly  to  his  •feet.'}  Good  night,  Miss  Freda. 
I  bane  feeling  sick.  Tell  Drisc — I  go  home.  [He 
takes  a  step  forward  and  suddenly  collapses  over  a 
chair.,  rolls  to  the  floor,  and  lies  there  unconscious.] 

JOE — [From  behind  the  bar.~\  Quick,  nawh! 
[NicK  darts  forward  with  JOE  following.  FREDA  is 
already  beside  the  unconscious  man  and  has  taken 
the  roll  of  money  from  his  inside  pocket.  She  strips 
off  a  note  furtively  and  shoves  it  into  her  bosom, 
trying  to  conceal  her  action,  but  JOE  sees  her. 
She  hands  the  roll  to  JOE,  who  pockets  it.  NICK 


80  THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME 

goes  through  all  the  other  pockets  and  lays  a  hand 
ful  of  change  on  the  table.] 

JOE — [Impatiently .~\  'Urry,  'urry,  can't  yer? 
The  other  blokes'll  be  'ere  in  'arf  a  mo'.  [The 
two  roughs  come  forward.]  'Ere,  you  two,  tike  'im 
in  under  the  arms  like  'e  was  drunk.  [They  do  so.] 
Tike  'im  to  the  Amindra — yer  knows  that,  don't 
yer? — two  docks  above.  Nick'll  show  yer.  An' 
you,  Nick,  down't  yer  leave  the  bleedin'  ship  till  the 
capt'n  guvs  yer  this  bloke's  advance — full  month's 
pay — five  quid,  d'yer  'ear? 

NICK — I  knows  me  bizness,  ole  bird.  [They  sup 
port  OLSON  to  the  door.] 

THE  ROUGH — [As  they  are  going  out.]  This 
silly  bloke'll  'ave  the  s'prise  of  'is  life  when  'e  wakes 
up  on  board  of  'er.  [They  laugh.  The  door  closes 
behind  them.  FREDA  moves  quickly  for  the  door  on 
the  left  but  JOE  gets  m  her  way  and  stops  her.] 

JOE — [Threateningly.]     Guv  us  what  yer  took! 

FREDA — Took?     I  guv  yer  all  'e  'ad. 

JOE — Yer  a  liar!  I  seen  yer  a-playin'  yer  sneak- 
in'  tricks,  but  yer  can't  fool  Joe.  I'm  too  old  a 
'and.  [Furiously.]  Guv  it  to  me,  yer  bloody  cow! 
[He  grabs  her  by  the  arm.] 

FREDA — Lemme  alone !     I  ain't  got  no 

JOE — [Hits  her  viciously  on  the  side  of  the  jaw. 
She  crumples  up  on  the  floor.]  That'll  learn  yer! 
[He  stoops  down  and  fumbles  in  her  bosom  and  pulls 
out  the  banknote^  which  he  stuffs  into  his  pocket 


THE  LONG  VOYAGE  HOME  81 

with  a  grunt  of  satisfaction.  KATE  opens  the  door 
on  the  left  and  looks  in — then  rushes  to  FREDA  and 
lifts  her  head  up  m  her  arms.] 

KATE — [Gently.]  Pore  dearie!  [Looking  at  JOE 
angrily.]  Been  'ittin*  'er  agen,  'ave  yer,  yer  cow 
ardly  swine ! 

JOE — Yus ;  an*  I'll  'it  you,  too,  if  yer  don't  keep 
yer  marf  shut.  Tike  'er  aht  of  'ere!  [KATE  car 
ries  FREDA  into  the  next  room.  JOE  goes  "behind 
the  bar.  A  moment  later  the  outer  door  is  opened 
and  DRISCOLL  and  COCKY  come  in.] 

DRISCOLL — Come  on,  Ollie.  [He  suddenly  sees 
that  OLSON  is  not  there,  and  turns  to  JOE.]  Where 
is  ut  he's  gone  to? 

JOE — [With  a  meaning  wink.]  'E  an*  Freda 
went  aht  t'gether  'bout  five  minutes  past.  'E's  fair 
gone  on  'er,  'e  is. 

DRISCOLL — [With  a  grin.]  Oho,  so  that's  ut,  is 
ut?  Who'd  think  Ollie'd  be  sich  a  divil  wid  the 
wimin?  'Tis  lucky  he's  sober  or  she'd  have  him 
stripped  to  his  last  ha'penny.  [Turning  to  COCKY, 
who  is  blinking  sleepily.]  What'll  ye  have,  ye  little 
scut?  [To  JOE.]  Give  me  whiskey,  Irish  whiskey! 

[The  Curtain  Falls] 


IN  THE  ZONE 

A  Play  In  One  Act 


CHAEACTEES 


SMITTY 
DAVIS 

SwANSON 
SCOTTY 

IVAN 

PAUL 
JACK 
DEISCOLL, 
COCKY 


Seamen  on  the  British  Tramp 
Steamer  Glencairn 


IN  THE  ZONE 


SCENE — The  seamen9 s  forecastle.  On  the  right 
above  the  bunks  three  or  four  portholes  covered 
with  black  cloth  can  be  seen.  On  the  floor  near 
the  doorway  is  a  pail  with  a  tin  dipper.  A 
lantern  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  turned  down 
very  low,  throws  a  dim  light  around  the  place. 
Five  men,  SCOTTY,  IVAN,  SWANSON,  SMITTY  and 
PAUL,  are  in  their  bunks  apparently  asleep.  It 
is  about  ten  minutes  of  twelve  on  a  night  in  the 
fall  of  the  year  1915. 

SMITTY  turns  slowly  in  his  bunk  and,  leaning 
out  over  the  side,  looks  from  one  to  another  of 
the  men  as  if  to  assure  himself  that  they  are 
asleep.  Then  he  climbs  carefully  out  of  his 
bunk  and  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  forecastle 
fully  dressed,  but  in  his  stocking  feet,  glancing 
around  him  suspiciously.  Reassured,  he  leans 
down  and  cautiously  pulls  out  a  suit-case  from 
under  the  bunks  in  front  of  him. 

Just  at  this  moment  DAVIS  appears  in  the 
doorway,  carrying  a  large  steaming  coffee-pot 
in  his  hand.  He  stops  short  when  he  sees 
85 


86  IN  THE  ZONE 

SMITTY.  A  puzzled  expression  comes  over  his 
face,  followed  by  one  of  suspicion,  and  he  re 
treats  farther  back  in  the  alleyway,  where  he 
can  watch  SMITTY  without  being  seen. 

All  the  latter's  movements  indicate  a  fear  of 
discovery.  He  takes  out  a  small  bunch  of  keys 
and  unlocks  the  suit-case,  making  a  slight  noise 
as  he  does  so.  SCOTTY  wakes  up  and  peers  at 
him  over  the  side  of  the  bunk.  SMITTY  opens 
the  suit-case  and  takes  out  a  small  black  tin  boa:, 
carefully  places  this  under  his  mattress,  shoves 
the  suit-case  back  under  the  bunk,  climbs  into 
his  bunk  again,  closes  his  eyes  and  begins  to 
snore  loudly. 

DAVIS  enters  the  forecastle,  places  the  coffee 
pot  beside  the  lantern,  and  goes  from  one  to  the 
other  of  the  sleepers  and  shakes  them  vigor 
ously,  saying  to  each  in  a  low  voice:  Near 
eight  bells,  Scotty.  Arise  and  shine,  Swanson. 
Eight  bells,  Ivan.  SMITTY  yawns  loudly  with 
a  great  pretense  of  having  been  dead  asleep. 
All  of  the  rest  of  the  men  tumble  out  of  their 
bunks,  stretching  and  gaping,  and  commence  to 
pull  on  their  shoes.  They  go  one  by  one  to  the 
cupboard  near  the  open  door,  take  out  their 
cups  and  spoons,  and  sit  down  together  on  the 
benches.  The  coffee-pot  is  passed  around. 
They  munch  their  biscuits  and  sip  their  coffee 
in  dull  silence. 


IN  THE  ZONE  87 

DAVIS — [Suddenly  jumping  to  his  feet — nerv 
ously.]  Where's  that  air  comin'  from?  [All  are 
startled  and  look  at  him  wonderingly.] 

SWANSON — [A  squat,  surly-faced  Swede — grump 
ily.']  What  air?  I  don't  feel  nothing. 

DAVIS — [Excitedly.]  I  kin  feel  it — a  draft. 
[He  stands  on  the  bench  and  looks  around — sud 
denly  exploding.]  Damn  fool  square-head!  [He 
leans  over  the  upper  bunk  in  which  PAUL  is  sleeping 
and  slams  the  porthole  shut.]  I  got  a  good  notion 
to  report  him.  Serve  him  bloody  well  right ! 
What's  the  use  o'  blindin'  the  ports  when  that  thick 
head  goes  an'  leaves  'em  open? 

SWANSON — [Yawning — too  sleepy  to  be  aroused 
by  anything — carelessly.]  Dey  don't  see  what  lit 
tle  light  go  out  yust  one  port. 

SCOTTY — [Protestingly.]  Dinna  be  a  loon, 
Swanson !  D'ye  no  ken  the  dangerr  o'  showin'  a  licht 
wi'  a  pack  o'  submarrines  lyin'  aboot? 

IVAN — [Shaking  his  shaggy  ox-like  head  in  an 
emphatic  affirmative.]  Dot's  right,  Scotty.  I 
dori'  li-ike  blow  up,  no,  by  devil! 

SMITTY — [His  manner  slightly  contemptuous.] 
I  don't  think  there's  much  danger  of  meeting  any 
of  their  submarines,  not  until  we  get  into  the  War 
Zone,  at  any  rate. 

DAVIS — [He  and  SCOTTY  look  at  SMITTY  suspi 
ciously — harshly.]  You  don't,  eh?  [He  lowers 
his  voice  and  speaks  slowly.]  Well,  we're  in  the 


88  IN  THE  ZONE 

war  zone  right  this  minit  if  you  wants  to  know. 
[The  effect  of  this  speech  is  instantaneous.  All  sit 
bolt  upright  on  their  benches  and  stare  at  Davis.] 

SMITTY — How  do  you  know,  Davis? 

DAVIS — [Angrily. ]  'Cos  Drisc  heard  the  First 
send  the  Third  below  to  wake  the  skipper  when  we 
fetched  the  zone — bout  five  bells,  it  was.  Now 
whata  y'  got  to  say? 

SMITTY — [Conciliatingly. .]  Oh,  I  wasn't  doubt 
ing  your  word,  Davis;  but  you  know  they're  not 
pasting  up  bulletins  to  let  the  crew  know  when  the 
zone  is  reached — especially  on  ammunition  ships 
like  this. 

IVAN — [Decidedly.']  I  don't  li-ike  dees  voyage. 
Next  time  I  ship  on  windjammer  Boston  to  River 
Plate,  load  with  wood  only  so  it  float,  by  golly  I 

SWANSON — [Fretfully.]  I  hope  British  navy 
blow  'em  to  hell,  those  submarines,  py  damn! 

SCOTTY — [Looking  at  SMITTY,  who  is  staring  at 
the  doorway  in  a  dream,  Ms  chin  on  his  hands. 
Meaningly.]  It  is  no  the  submarrines  only  we've 
to  fear,  I'm  thinkin'. 

DAVIS — [Assenting  eagerly.]  That's  no  lie, 
Scotty. 

SWANSON — You  mean  the  mines? 

SCOTTY — I  wasna  thinkin'  o'  mines  eitherr. 

DAVIS — There's  many  a  good  ship  blown  up  and 
at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  what  never  hit  no  mine  or 
torpedo. 


IN  THE  ZONE  89 

SCOTTY — Did  ye  neverr  read  of  the  Gerrman 
spies  and  the  dirrty  work  they're  doin'  all  the  war? 
[He  and  DAVIS  both  glance  at  SMITTY,  who  is  deep 
m  thought  and  is  not  listening  to  the  conversation.] 

DAVIS — An'  the  clever  way  they  fool  you! 

SWANSON — Sure;  I  read  it  in  paper  many  time. 

DAVIS — Well — [He  is  about  to  speak  but  hesi 
tates  and  finishes  lamely]  you  got  to  watch  out, 
that's  all  I  says. 

IVAN — [Drinking  the  last  of  his  coffee  and  slam 
ming  his  fist  on  the  bench  explosively.]  I  tell  you 
dis  rotten  coffee  give  me  belly-ache,  yes!  [They 
all  look  at  him  in  amused  disgust.] 

SCOTTY — [Sardonically.]  Dinna  fret  about  it, 
Ivan.  If  we  blow  up  ye'll  no  be  mindin'  the  pain 
in  your  middle.  [JACK  enters.  He  is  a  young  Amer 
ican  with  a  tough,  good-natured  face.  He  wears 
dungarees  and  a  heavy  jersey.] 

JACK — Eight  bells,  fellers. 

IVAN — [Stupidly.]     I  don'  hear  bell  ring. 

JACK — No,  and  yuh  won't  hear  any  ring,  yuh 
boob — [Lowering  his  voice  unconsciously.]  now 
we're  in  the  war  zone. 

SWANSON — [Anxiously.]     Is  the  boats  all  ready? 

JACK — Sure;  we  can  lower  'em  in  a  second. 

DAVIS — A  lot  o'  good  the  boats'll  do,  with  us 
loaded  deep  with  all  kinds  o'  dynamite  and  stuff 
the  like  o'  that!  If  a  torpedo  hits  this  hooker 
we'll  all  be  in  hell  b'fore  you  could  wink  your  eye. 


90  IN  THE  ZONE 

JACK — They  ain't  goin'  to  hit  us,  see?  That's 
my  dope.  Whose  wheel  is  it  ? 

IVAN — [Sullenly. ]    My  wheel.    [He  lumbers  out.~\ 

JACK — And  whose  lookout? 

SWANSON — Mine,  I  tink.     [He  follows  IVAN.] 

JACK — [Scornfully.]  A  hell  of  a  lot  of  use 
keepin'  a  lookout!  We  couldn't  run  away  or  fight 
if  we  wanted  to.  [To  SCOTTY  and  SMITTY.]  Bet 
ter  look  up  the  bo'sun  or  the  Fourth,  you  two,  and 
let  'em  see  you're  awake.  [SCOTTY  goes  to  the 
doorway  and  turns  to  wait  for  SMITTY,  who  is  still 
in  the  same  position,  head  on  hands,  seemingly  un 
conscious  of  everything.  JACK  slaps  him  roughly 
on  the  shoulder  and  he  comes  to  with  a  start.]  Aft 
and  report,  Duke!  What's  the  matter  with  yuh — 
in  a  dope  dream?  [SMITTY  goes  out  after  SCOTTY 
without  answering.  JACK  looks  after  him  with  a 
frown.]  He's  a  queer  guy.  I  can't  figger  him  out. 

DAVIS — Nor  no  one  else.  [Lowering  his  voice — 
meaningly.]  An'  he's  liable  to  turn  out  queerer 
than  any  of  us  think  if  we  ain't  careful. 

JACK — [Suspiciously.]  What  d'yuh  mean? 
[They  are  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  DRISCOI/L 
and  COCKY.] 

COCKY — [Protestingly]  Blimey  if  I  don't  fink 
I'll  put  in  this  'ere  watch  ahtside  on  deck.  [He  and 
DRISCOLL  go  over  and  get  their  cups]  I  down't 
want  to  be  caught  in  this  'ole  if  they  'its  us.  [He 
pours  out  coffee.] 


IN  THE  ZONE  91 

DRISCOLL — [Pouring  his.]  Divil  a  bit  ut  wud  mat- 
ther  where  ye  arre.  Ye'd  be  blown  to  smithereens 
b'fore  ye  cud  say  your  name.  [He  sits  down,  over 
turning  as  he  does  so  the  untouched  cup  of  coffee 
which  SMITTY  had  forgotten  and  left  on  the  bench. 
They  all  jump  nervously  as  the  t'm  cup  hits  the 
•floor  with  a  bang.  DRISCOLL  flies  into  an  unreason 
ing  rage.]  Who's  the  dirty  scut  left  this  cup  where 
a  man  'ud  sit  on  ut? 

DAVIS— It's  Smitty's. 

DRISCOLL — [Kicking  the  cup  across  the  fore 
castle.]  Does  he  think  he's  too  much  av  a  bloody 
gentleman  to  put  his  own  away  loike  the  rist  av  us? 
If  he  does  I'm  the  bye'll  beat  that  noshun  out  av 
his  head. 

COCKY — Be  the  airs  'e  puts  on  you'd  think  'e  was 
the  Prince  of  Wales.  Wot's  'e  doin'  on  a  ship, 
I  arsks  yer?  'E  ain't  now  good  as  a  sailor,  is  'e?— 
dawdlin'  abaht  on  deck  like  a  chicken  wiv  'is  'ead 
cut  orf ! 

JACK — [Good-naturedly. ~\  Aw,  the  Duke's  all 
right.  S'posin'  he  did  ferget  his  cup — what's  the 
dif?  [He  picks  up  the  cup  and  puts  it  away — 
with  a  grin.]  This  war  zone  stuff's  got  yer  goat, 
Drisc — and  yours  too,  Cocky — and  I  ain't  cheerin' 
much  fur  it  myself,  neither. 

COCKY — [With  a  sigh.]  Blimey,  it  ain't  .no 
bleedin'  joke,  yer  first  trip,  to  know  as  there's  a 
ship  full  of  shells  li'ble  to  go  orf  in  under  your/ 


92  IN  THE  ZONE 

bloomin'  feet,  as  you  might  say,  if  we  gets  *it  be  a 
torpedo  or  mine.  [With  sudden  savagery.'}  Calls 
the/selves  'uman  bein's,  too !  Blarsted  'Uns  ! 

DRISCOI/L — [Gloomily. ,]  'Tis  me  last  trip  in  the 
bloody  zone,  God  help  me.  The  divil  take  their 
twenty-foive  percent  bonus — and  be  drowned  like  a 
rat  in  a  trap  in  the  bargain,  maybe. 

DAVIS — Wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  she  wasn't  carryin' 
ammunition.  Them's  the  kind  the  subs  is  layin'  for. 

DRISCOI/L — [Irritably.]  Fur  the  love  av  hivin, 
don't  be  talkin'  about  ut.  I'm  sick  wid  thinkin' 
and  jumpin'  at  iviry  bit  av  a  noise.  [There  is  a 
pause  during  which  they  all  stare  gloomily  at  the 
floor.'] 

JACK — Hey,  Davis,  what  was  you  sayin'  about 
Smitty  when  they  come  in? 

DAVIS — [With  a  great  air  of  mystery.]  I'll  tell 
you  in  a  minit.  I  want  to  wait  an'  see  if  he's 
comin15  back.  [Impress  wely.  ]  You  won't  be 
callin'  him  all  right  when  you  hears  what  I  seen 
with  my  own  eyes.  [He  adds  with  an  air  of  satis 
faction.]  An'  you  won't  be  feelin'  no  safer,  neither. 
[They  all  look  at  him  with  puzzled  glances  full  of  a 
vague  apprehension.] 

DRISCOI/L — God  blarst  ut !  [He  fills  his  pipe  and 
lights  it.  The  others,  with  an  air  of  remembering 
something  they  had  forgotten,  do  the  same. 
SCOTTY  enters.] 


IN  THE  ZONE  93 

SCOTTY — [In  awed  tones.]  Mon,  but  it's  clear 
outside  the  nicht!  Like  day. 

DAVIS — [In  low  tones.]     Where's  Smitty,  Scotty? 

SCOTTY — Out  on  the  hatch  starin'  at  the  moon 
like  a  mon  half-daft. 

DAVIS — Kin  you  see  him  from  the  doorway? 

SCOTTY — [Goes  to  doorway  and  carefully  peeks 
out.']  Aye;  he's  still  there. 

DAVIS — Keep  your  eyes  on  him  for  a  moment. 
I've  got  something  I  wants  to  tell  the  boys  and  I 
don't  want  him  walkin'  in  in  the  middle  of  it.  Give 
a  shout  if  he  starts  this  way. 

SCOTTY — [With  suppressed  excitement.']  Aye, 
I'll  watch  him.  And  I've  somethin'  myself  to  tell 
aboot  his  Lordship. 

DRISCOLL — [Impatiently.]  Out  wid  ut!  You're 
talkin'  more  than  a  pair  av  auld  women  wud  be 
standin'  in  the  road,  and  gittin'  no  further  along. 

DAVIS — Listen!  You  'member  when  I  went  to 
git  the  coffee,  Jack? 

JACK — Sure,  I  do. 

DAVIS — Well,  I  brings  it  down  here  same  as  usual 
and  got  as  far  as  the  door  there  when  I  sees  him. 

JACK — Smitty  ? 

DAVIS — Yes,  Smitty!  He  was  standin'  in  the 
middle  of  the  fo'c's'tle  there  [Pomting.~\  lookin' 
around  sneakin'-like  at  Ivan  and  Swanson  and  the 
rest  's  if  he  wants  to  make  certain  they're  asleep. 
[He  pauses  significantly,  looking  from  one  to  the 


94  IN  THE  ZONE 

other  of  his  listeners.  SCOTTY  is  nervously  dividmg 
his  attention  between  SMITTY  on  the  hatch  outside 
and  DAVIS'  story,  fairly  bursting  to  break  in  with 
his  own  revelations.] 

JACK — [Impatiently.]    What  of  it? 

DAVIS — Listen!  He  was  standin'  right  there — 
[Pointing  again.]  in  his  stockin'  feet — no  shoes  on, 
mind,  so  he  wouldn't  make  no  noise! 

JACK — [Spitting  disgustedly.']     Aw! 

DAVIS — [Not  heeding  the  interruption.]  I  seen 
right  away  somethin'  on  the  queer  was  up  so  I  slides 
back  into  the  alleyway  where  I  kin  see  him  but  he 
can't  see  me.  After  he  makes  sure  they're  all  asleep 
he  goes  in  under  the  bunks  there — bein'  careful  not 
to  raise  a  noise,  mind ! — an'  takes  out  his  bag  there. 
[By  this  time  every  one,  JACK  included,  is  listening 
breathlessly  to  his  story.)  Then  he  fishes  in  his 
pocket  an'  takes  out  a  bunch  o'  keys  an'  kneels  down 
beside  the  bag  an'  opens  it. 

SCOTTY — [Unable  to  keep  silent  longer.]  Mon, 
didn't  I  see  him  do  that  same  thing  wi'  these  two 
eyes.  'Twas  just  that  moment  I  woke  and  spied 
him. 

DAVIS — [Surprised,  and  a  bit  nettled  to  have  to 
share  his  story  with  any  one.]  Oh,  you  seen  him, 
too,  eh?  [To  the  others.]  Then  Scotty  kin  tell 
you  if  I'm  lyin'  or  not. 

DRISCOLL — An*  what  did  he  do  whin  he'd  the  bag 
opened? 


IN  THE  ZONE  95 

DAVIS — He  bends  down  and  reaches  out  his  hand 
sort  o'  scared-like,  like  it  was  somethin'  dang'rous 
he  was  after,  an'  feels  round  in  under  his  duds — 
hidden  in  under  his  duds  an'  wrapped  up  in  'em,  it 
was — an'  he  brings  out  a  black  iron  box! 

COCKY — [Looking  around  him  with  a  frightened 
glance.]  Gawd  blimey!  [The  others  likewise  be 
tray  their  uneasiness,  shuffling  their  feet  nervously.] 

DAVIS — Ain't  that  right,  Scott y? 

SCOTTY — Right  as   rain,  I'm  tellin'  ye'! 

DAVIS — [To  the  others  with  an  air  of  satisfac 
tion.]  There  you  are!  [Lowering  his  voice.]  An' 
then  what  d'you  suppose  he  did?  Sneaks  to  his 
bunk  an'  slips  the  black  box  in  under  his  mattress — 
in  under  his  mattress,  mind! — 

JACK — And  it's  there  now? 

DAVIS — Course  it  is !  [JACK  starts  toward  SMIT- 
TY'S  bunk.  DRISCOLL  grabs  him  by  the  arm.] 

DRISCOLL — Don't  be  touchin'  ut,  JACK! 

JACK — Yuh  needn't  worry.  I  ain't  goin'  to 
touch  it.  [He  pulls  up  SMITTY'S  mattress  and  looks 
down.  The  others  stare  at  him,  holding  their 
breaths.  He  turns  to  them,  trying  hard  to  assume 
a  careless  tone.]  It's  there,  aw  right. 

COCKY — [Miserably  upset.]  I'm  gointer  'op  it 
aht  on  deck.  [He  gets  up  but  DRISCOKL  pulls  him 
down  again.  COCKY  protests.]  It  fair  guvs  me  the 
trembles  sittin'  still  in  'ere. 

DRISCOLL — [Scornfully.]     Are  ye  frightened,  ye 


96  IN  THE  ZONE 

toad?  "Tis  a  hell  av  a  thing  fur  grown  men  to  be 
shiverin'  loike  childer  at  a  bit  av  a  black  box. 
[Scratching  his  head  in  uneasy  perplexity.]  Still, 
ut's  damn  queer,  the  looks  av  ut. 

DAVIS — [Sarcastically.']  A  bit  of  a  black  box, 
eh?  How  big  d'you  think  them — [He  'hesitates'] — • 
things  has  to  be — big  as  this  fo'c's'tle? 

JACK — [In  a  voice  meant  to  be  reassuring.'}  Aw, 
hell!  I'll  bet  it  ain't  nothin'  but  some  coin  he's 
saved  he's  got  locked  up  in  there. 

DAVIS — [Scornfully.]  That's  likely,  ain't  it? 
Then  why  does  he  act  so  s'picious?  He's  been  on 
ship  near  two  year,  ain't  he?  He  knows  damn  well 
there  ain't  no  thief s  in  this  fo'c's'tle,  don't  he?  An' 
you  know  's  well  's  I  do  he  didn't  have  no  money 
when  he  came  on  board  an'  he  ain't  saved  none 
since.  Don't  you?  [JACK  doesn9t  answer.]  Lis 
ten!  D'you  know  what  he  done  after  he  put  that 
thing  in  under  his  mattress? — an'  Scotty'll  tell  you 
if  I  ain't  speakin'  truth.  He  looks  round  to  see  if 
any  one's  woke  up 

SCOTTY — I  clapped  my  eyes  shut  when  he  turned 
round. 

DAVIS — An'  then  he  crawls  into  his  bunk  an' 
shuts  his  eyes,  an'  starts  in  snoring  pretending  he 
was  asleep;  mind! 

SCOTTY — Aye,  I  could  hear  him. 

DAVIS — An'  when  I  goes  to  call  him  I  don't  even 
shake  him.  I  just  says,  "Eight  bells,  Smitty,"  in 


IN  THE  ZONE  97 

a'most  a  whisper-like,  an'  up  he  gets  yawnin'  an' 
s  tret  chin*  fit  to  kill  hisself  's  if  he'd  been  dead  asleep. 

COCKY — Gawd  blimey ! 

DRISCOLL, — [Shaking  Ms  head.}  Ut  looks  bad, 
divil  a  doubt  av  ut. 

DAVIS — [Excitedly. ,]  An'  now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  there's  the  porthole.  How'd  it  come  to  git 
open,  tell  me  that?  I  know'd  well  Paul  never 
opened  it.  Ain't  he  grumblin'  about  be  in'  cold  all 
the  time? 

SCOTT Y — The  mon  that  opened  it  meant  no  good 
to  this  ship,  whoever  he  was. 

JACK — [Sourly. ,]  What  porthole?  What're  yuh 
talkin'  about? 

DAVIS — [Pointing  over  PAUL'S  bunk.}  There. 
It  was  open  when  I  come  in.  I  felt  the  cold  air  on 
my  neck  an'  shut  it.  It  would'a  been  dear's  a  light 
house  to  any  sub  that  was  watchin' — an'  we  s'posed 
to  have  all  the  ports  blinded!  Who'd  do  a  dirty 
trick  like  that?  It  wasn't  none  of  us,  nor  Scotty 
here,  nor  Swanson,  nor  Ivan.  Who  would  it  be, 
then? 

COCKY — [Angrily.'}  Must'a  been  'is  bloody 
Lordship. 

DAVIS — For  all's  we  know  he  might'a  been  signal- 
lin'  with  it.  They  does  it  like  that  by  winkin'  a 
light.  Ain't  you  read  how  they  gets  caught  doin* 
it  in  London  an'  on  the  coast? 

COCKY — [Firmly  convinced  now."}     An*  wots  'e 


98  IN  THE  ZONE 

ctain'  aht  alone  on  the  *atch — keepin'  'isself  clear 
of  us  like  'e  was  afraid? 

DRISCOLL — Kape  your  eye  on  him,  Scotty. 

SCOTTY — There's  no  a  move  oot  o'  him. 

JACK — {In  irritated  perplexity.]  But,  hell, 
ain't  he  an  Englishman?  What'd  he  wanta 

DAVIS — English?  How  d'we  know  he's  English? 
Cos  he  talks  it?  That  ain't  no  proof.  Ain't  you 
read  in  the  papers  how  all  them  German  spies  they 
been  catchin'  in  England  has  been  livin'  there  for 
ten,  often  as  not  twenty  years,  an'  talks  English  as 
good's  any  one?  An'  look  here,  ain't  you  noticed 
he  don't  talk  natural?  He  talks  it  too  damn  good, 
that's  what  I  mean.  He  don't  talk  exactly  like  a 
toff,  does  he,  Cocky? 

COCKY — Not  like  any  toff  as  I  ever  met  up  wiv. 

DAVIS — No;  an'  he  don't  talk  it  like  us,  that's 
certain.  An*  he  don't  look  English.  An'  what 
d'we  know  about  him  when  you  come  to  look  at  it? 
Nothin'!  He  ain't  ever  said  where  he  comes  from 
or  why.  All  we  knows  is  he  ships  on  here  in  Lon 
don  'bout  a  year  b'fore  the  war  starts,  as  an  A.  B. — 
stole  his  papers  most  lik'ly — when  he  don't  know 
how  to  box  the  compass,  hardly.  Ain't  that  queer 
in  itself?  An'  was  he  ever  open  with  us  like  a  good 
shipmate?  No;  he's  always  had  that  sly  air  about 
him  's  if  he  was  hidin'  somethin'. 

DRISCOLL — [Slapping  his  thigh — angrily.'}    Divil 


IN  THE  ZONE  .      99 

take  me  if  I  don't  think  ye  have  the  truth  av  ut, 
Davis. 

COCKY — [Scornfully.']  Lettin*  on  be  'is  silly 
airs,  and  all,  'e's  the  son  of  a  blarsted  earl  or  some- 
think  ! 

DAVIS — An'  the  name  he  calls  hisself — Smith! 
I'd  risk  a  quid  of  my  next  pay  day  that  his  real 
name  is  Schmidt,  if  the  truth  was  known. 

JACK — [Evidently  fighting  against  his  own  con 
viction.]  Aw,  say,  you  guys  give  me  a  pain! 
What'd  they  want  puttin'  a  spy  on  this  old  tub  for? 

DAVIS — [Shaking  his  head  sagely.]  They're 
deep  ones,  an'  there's  a  lot  o'  things  a  sailor'll  see 
in  the  ports  he  puts  in  ought  to  be  useful  to  'em. 
An'  if  he  kin  signal  to  'em  an'  they  blows  us  up  it's 
one  ship  less,  ain't  it?  [Lowering  his  voice  and  in 
dicating  SMITTY'S  bunk.]  Or  if  he  blows  us  up  his 
self. 

SCOTTY — [In  alarmed  tones.~\  Hush,  mon! 
Here  he  comes!  [SCOTTY  hurries  over  to  a  bench 
and  sits  down.  A  thick  silence  settles  over  the  fore 
castle.  The  men  look  from  one  to  another  with  un 
easy  glances.  SMITTY  enters  and  sits  down  beside 
his  bunk.  He  is  seemingly  unaware  of  the  dark 
glances  of  suspicion  directed  at  him  from  all  sides. 
He  slides  his  hand  back  stealthily  over  his  mattress 
and  his  fingers  move,  evidently  feeling  to  make  sure 
the  box  is  still  there.  The  others  follow  this  move 
ment  carefully  with  quick  looks  out  of  the  corners 


100  IN  THE  ZONE 

of  their  eyes.  Their  attitudes  grow  tense  as  if  they 
were  about  to  spring  at  him.  Satisfied  the  boy  is 
safe,  SMITTY  draws  his  hand  away  slowly  and  utters 
u  sigh  of  relief.] 

SMITTY — [In  a  casual  tone  which  to  them  sounds 
sinister.]  It's  a  good  light  night  for  the  subs  if 
there's  any  about.  [For  a  moment  he  sits  staring 
in  front  of  him.  Finally  he  seems  to  sense  the  hos 
tile  atmosphere  of  the  forecastle  and  looks  from  one 
to  the  other  of  the  men  in  surprise.  All  of  them 
avoid  his  eyes.  He  sighs  with  a  puzzled  expression 
and  gets  up  and  walks  out  of  the  doorway.  There 
is  silence  for  a  moment  after  his  departure  and  then 
a  storm  of  excited  talk  breaks  loose.] 

DAVIS — Did  you  see  him  feelin'  if  it  was  there? 

COCKY — 'E  ain't  arf  a  sly  one  wiv  'is  talk  of  sub 
marines,  Gawd  blind  'im ! 

SCOTTY — Did  ve  see  the  sneakin'  looks  he  gave 
us? 

DRISCOLL — If  ivir  I  saw  black  shame  on  a  man's 
face  'twas  on  his  whin  he  sat  there! 

JACK — [Thoroughly  convinced  at  last.]  He 
looked  bad  to  me.  He's  a  crook,  aw  right. 

DAVIS — [Excitedly.]  What'll  we  do?  We  got- 

ter  do  somethin'  quick  or [He  is  interrupted 

by  the  sound  of  something  hitting  against  the  port 
side  of  the  forecastle  with  a  dull,  heavy  thud.  The 
men  start  to  their  feet  in  wild-eyed  terror  and  turn 
as  if  they  were  going  to  rush  for  the  deck.  They 


IN  THE  ZONE 

stand  that  way  for  a  strained  moment,  scarcely 
breathing  and  listening  intently.] 

JACK — [With  a  sickly  smile.]  Hell!  It's  on'y 
a  piece  of  driftwood  or  a  floatin'  log.  [He  sits 
down  again.] 

DAVIS — [Sarcastically.]  Or  a  mine  that  didn't 
go  off — that  time — or  a  piece  o'  wreckage  from 
some  ship  they've  sent  to  Davy  Jones. 

COCKY — [Mopping  his  brow  with  a  trembling 
hand]  Blimey!  [He  sinks  back  weakly  on  a 
bench] 

DRISCOLL — [Furiously.]  God  blarst  ut!  No 
man  at  all  cud  be  puttin'  up  wid  the  loike  av  this — 
an'  I'm  not  wan  to  be  fearin'  anything  or  any  man 
in  the  worrld'll  stand  up  to  me  face  to  face;  but 
this  divil's  trickery  in  the  darrk—  [He  starts 

for  SMITTY'S  bunk]  I'll  throw  ut  out  wan  av  the 
portholes  an'  be  done  wid  ut.  [He  reaches  toward 
the  mattress] 

SCOTTY — [Grabbing  his  arm — wildly]  Arre  ye 
daft,  mon? 

DAVIS — Don't  monkey  with  it,  Drisc.  I  knows 
what  to  do.  Bring  the  bucket  o'  water  here,  Jack, 
will  you?  [JACK  gets  it  and  brings  it  over  to 
DAVIS.]  An*  you,  Scotty,  see  if  he's  back  on  the 
hatch. 

SCOTTY — [Cautiously  peering  out]  Aye,  he's 
sittin'  there  the  noo. 

DAVIS — Sing  out  if  he  makes  a  move.     Lift  up 


$fcj.*  '::..:  :<  -IN  THE  ZONE 


the  mattress,  Drisc  —  careful  now!  [Dmscoi/L 
does  so  with  infinite  caution.]  Take  it  out,  JACK  — 
careful  —  don't  shake  it  now,  for  Christ's  sake! 
Here  —  put  it  in  the  water  —  easy!  There,  that's 
fixed  it!  \Tlfiey  all  sit  down  with  great  sighs  of 
relief.  ]  The  water  '11  git  in  and  spoil  it. 

DRISCOLL  —  [Slapping  DAVIS  on  the  back]  Good 
wurrk  for  ye,  Davis,  ye  scut  !  [He  spits  on  his 
hands  aggressively.]  An'  now  what's  to  be  done 
wid  that  black-hearted  thraitor? 

COCKY  —  [Belligerently.']  Guv  'im  a  shove  in  the 
marf  and  'eave  'im  over  the  side  ! 

DAVIS  —  An*  serve  him  right! 

JACK  —  Aw,  say,  give  him  a  chance.  Yuh  can't 
prove  nothin'  till  yuh  find  out  what's  in  there. 

DBJSCOI/L  —  [Heatedly]  Is  ut  more  proof  ye'd 
be  needin'  afther  what  we've  seen  an'  heard?  Then 
listen  to  me  —  an'  ut's  Driscoll  talkin'  —  if  there's 
divilmint  in  that  box  an'  we  see  plain  'twas  his  plan 
to  murrdher  his  own  shipmates  that  have  served 
him  fair  -  [He  raises  his  fist]  I'll  choke  his 
rotten  hearrt  out  wid  me  own  hands,  an'  over  the 
side  wid  him,  and  one  man  missin'  in  the  mornin*. 

DAVIS  —  An'  no  one  the  wiser.  He's  the  balmy 
kind  what  commits  suicide. 

COCKY  —  They  'angs  spies  ashore. 

JACK  —  [Resentfully]  If  he's  done  what  yuh 
think  I'll  croak  him  myself.  Is  that  good  enough 
(for  yuh? 


IN  THE  ZONE  103 

DRISCOLL — [Looking  down  at  the  boa:.']  How'll 
we  be  openin'  this,  I  wonder? 

SCOTTY — [From  the  doorway — warningly.]  He's 
standin'  up. 

DAVIS — We'll  take  his  keys  away  from  him  when 
he  comes  in.  Quick,  Drisc!  You  an'  Jack  get  be 
side  the  door  and  grab  him.  [They  get  on  either 
side  of  the  door.  DAVIS  snatches  a  small  coil  of 
rope  from  one  of  the  upper  bunks.']  This'll  do  for 
me  an'  Scotty  to  tie  him. 

SCOTTY — He's  turrnin'  this  way — he's  comin'! 
[He  moves  away  from  door.~\ 

DAVIS — Stand  by  to  lend  a  hand,  Cocky. 

COCKY — Righto.  [As  SMITTY  enters  the  -fore 
castle  he  is  seized  roughly  from  both  sides  and  his 
arms  pinned  behind  him.  At  first  he  struggles 
fiercely,  but  seeing  the  uselessness  of  this,  he  finally 
stands  calmly  and  allows  DAVIS  and  SCOTTY  to  tie 
up  his  arms.] 

SMITTY — [When  they  have  finished — with  cold 
contempt]  If  this  is  your  idea  of  a  joke  I'll  have 
to  confess  it's  a  bit  too  thick  for  me  to  enjoy. 

COCKY — [Angrily.]     Shut  yer  marf,  'ear! 

DRISCOLL — [Roughly.]  Ye'll  find  ut's  no  joke, 
me  bucko,  b'fore  we're  done  wid  you.  [To  SCOTTY.] 
Kape  your  eye  peeled,  Scotty,  and  sing  out  if  any 
one's  comin'.  [SCOTTY  resumes  his  post  at  the 
door.] 


104  IN  THE  ZONE 

SMITTY — [With  the  same  icy  contempt.]  If 
you'd  be  good  enough  to  explain 

DRISCOLL, — [Furiously.]  Explain,  is  ut?  "Tis 
you'll  do  the  explainin' — an'  damn  quick,  or  we'll 
know  the  reason  why.  [To  JACK  and  DAVIS.] 
Bring  him  here,  now.  [They  push  SMITTY  over  to 
the  bucket]  Look  here,  ye  murrdherin'  swab. 
D'you  see  ut?  [SMITTY  looks  down  with  an  ex 
pression  of  amazement  which  rapidly  changes  to 
one  of  anguish] 

DAVIS — [With  a  sneer]  Look  at  him!  S'prised, 
ain't  you?  If  you  wants  to  try  your  dirty  spyin* 
tricks  on  us  you've  gotter  git  up  earlier  in  the 
mornin'. 

COCKY — Thorght  yer  weren't  'arf  a  fox,  didn't 
yer? 

SMITTY — [Trying  to  restrain  his  growing  rage] 
What — what  do  you  mean?  That's  only — How 
dare — What  are  you  doing  with  my  private  be 
longings  ? 

COCKY — [Sarcastically]  Ho  yus  !  Private  b'long1- 
ings! 

DRISCOLL — [Shouting]  What  is  ut,  ye  swine? 
Will  you  tell  us  to  our  faces  ?  What's  in  ut  ? 

SMITTY — [Biting  his  lips — holding  himself  in 

check  with  a  great  effort]  Nothing  but That's 

my  business.  You'll  please  attend  to  your  own. 

DRISCOI/L — Oho,  ut  is,  is  ut?  [Shaking  his  fist 
in  SMITTY'S  face]  Talk  aisy  now  if  ye  know 


IN  THE  ZONE  105 

what's  best  for  you.  Your  business,  indade !  Then 
we'll  be  makin'  ut  ours,  I'm  thinkin'.  [To  JACK 
and  DAVIS.]  Take  his  keys  away  from  him  an' 
we'll  see  if  there's  one'll  open  ut,  maybe.  [They 
start  in  searching  SMITTY,  who  tries  to  resist  and 
kicks  out  at  the  bucket.  DRISCOLL  leaps  forward 
and  helps  them  push  him  away.]  Try  to  kick  ut 
over,  wud  ye?  Did  ye  see  him  then?  Tryin'  to 
murrdher  us  all,  the  scut!  Take  that  pail  out  av 
his  way,  Cocky.  [SMITTY  struggles  with  all  of  his 
strength  and  keeps  them  busy  for  a  few  seconds. 
As  COCKY  grabs  the  pail  SMITTY  makes  a  final  effort 
and,  lunging  forward,  kicks  again  at  the  bucket  but 
only  succeeds  in  hitting  COCKY  on  the  shin.  COCKY 
immediately  sets  down  the  pail  with  a  bang  and, 
clutching  his  knee  m  both  hands,  starts  hopping 
around  the  forecastle,  groaning  and  swearing. ] 

COCKY — Ooow!  Gawd  strike  me  pink!  Kicked 
me,  'e  did!  Bloody,  bleedin',  rotten  Dutch  'og! 
[Approaching  SMITTY,  who  has  given  up  the  fight 
and  is  pushed  back  against  the  wall  near  the  door- 
way  with  JACK  and  DAVIS  holding  him  on  either 
side — wrathfully,  at  the  top  of  his  lungs. ~\  Kick 
me,  will  yer?  I'll  show  yer  what  for,  yer  bleedin* 
sneak !  [He  draws  back  his  fist.  DRISCOLL  pushes 
him  to  one  side.] 

DRISCOLL — Shut  your  mouth!  D'you  want  to 
wake  the  whole  ship?  [COCKY  grumbles  and  retires 
to  a  bench,  nursing  his  sore  shin.] 


106  IN  THE  ZONE 

JACK — [Taking  a  small  bunch  of  keys  from 
SMITTY'S  pocket.]  Here  yuh  are,  Drisc. 

DRISCOI/L — [Taking  them.'}  We'll  soon  be  know- 
in'.  [He  takes  the  pail  and  sits  down,  placing  it 
on  the  floor  between  his  feet.  SMITTY  again  tries 
to  break  loose  but  he  is  too  tired  and  is  easily  held 
back  against  the  wall.] 

SMITTY — \_Breathing  heavily  and  very  pale.~\ 
Cowards ! 

JACK—  [With  a  growl."\  Nix  on  the  rough  talk, 
see !  That  don't  git  yuh  nothin'. 

DRISCOI/L — [Looking  at  the  lock  on  the  box  in 
the  water  and  then  scrutinizing  the  keys  in  his 
hand.']  This'll  be  ut,  I'm  thinkin'.  [He  selects 
one  and  gingerly  reaches  his  hand  in  the  water.] 

SMITTY — [His  face  grown  livid — chokingly.] 
Don't  you  open  that  box,  Driscoll.  If  you  do,  so 
help  me  God,  I'll  kill  you  if  I  have  to  hang  for  it. 

DRISCOLL — [Pausing — his  hand  in  the  water.] 
Whin  I  open  this  box  I'll  not  be  the  wan  to  be  kilt, 
me  sonny  bye !  I'm  no  dirty  spy. 

SMITTY — [His  voice  trembling  with  rage.  His 
eyes  are  fixed  on  DRISCOI/L'S  hand.]  Spy?  What 
are  you  talking  about?  I  only  put  that  box  there 
so  I  could  get  it  quick  in  case  we  were  torpedoed. 
Are  you  all  mad?  Do  you  think  I'm [Chok 
ingly.]  You  stupid  curs !  You  cowardly  dolts  1 
[DAVIS  claps  his  hand  over  SMITTY'S  mouth.] 

DAVIS — That'll  be  enough  from  you !     [ 


IN  THE  ZONE  10*7 

takes  the  dripping  box  -from  the  water  and  starts 
to  fit  in  the  key.  SMITTY  springs  forward  furi 
ously,  almost  escaping  from  their  grasp,  and  drags 
them  after  him  half-way  across  the  forecastle.'} 

DRISCOLL — Hold  him,  ye  divils !  [He  puts  the 
box  back  in  the  water  and  jumps  to  their  aid. 
COCKY  hovers  on  the  outskirts  of  the  battle,  mind 
ful  of  the  kick  he  received. ] 

SMITTY — [Raging.']  Cowards!  Damn  you!  Rot 
ten  curs !  [He  is  thrown  to  the  floor  and  held 
there. ,]  Cowards!  Cowards! 

DRISCOLL — I'll  shut  your  dirty  mouth  for  you. 
[He  goes  to  his  bunk  and  pulls  out  a  big  wad  of 
waste  and  comes  back  to  SMITTY.] 

SMITTY — Cowards  !     Cowards ! 

DRISCOLL — [With  no  gentle  hand  slaps  the  waste 
over  SMITTY'S  mouth.']  That'll  teach  you  to  be 
misnamin'  a  man,  ye  sneak.  Have  ye  a  handker 
chief,  Jack?  [JACK  hands  him  one  and  he  ties  it 
tightly  around  SMITTY'S  head  over  the  waste.] 
That'll  fix  your  gab.  Stand  him  up,  now,  and  tie 
his  feet,  too,  so  he'll  not  be  movin'.  [They  do  so 
and  leave  him  with  his  back  against  the  wall  near 
SCOTTY.  Then  they  all  sit  down  beside  DRISCOLL, 
who  again  lifts  the  box  out  of  the  water  and  sets 
it  carefully  on  his  knees.  He  picks  out  the  key, 
then  hesitates,  looking  from  one  to  the  other  uncer 
tainly.']  We'd  best  be  takin'  this  to  the  skipper, 
d'you  think,  maybe? 


108  IN  THE  ZONE 

JACK — [Irritably.']  To  hell  with  the  Old  Man. 
This  is  our  game  and  we  c'n  play  it  without  no 
help. 

COCKY — Now  bleedin*  horficers,  I  says ! 

DAVIS — They'd  only  be  takin'  all  the  credit  and 
makin'  heroes  of  theyselves. 

DRISCOLL — [Boldly.]  Here  goes,  thin!  [He 
slowly  turns  the  ~key  in  the  lock.  The  others  m- 
stinctively  turn  away.  He  carefully  pushes  the 
cover  back  on  its  hinges  and  looks  at  what  he  sees 
inside  with  an  expression  of  puzzled  astonishment. 
The  others  crowd  up  close.  Even  SCOTTY  leaves  his 
post  to  take  a  look]  What  is  ut,  Davis? 

DAVIS — [Mystified]  Looks  funny,  don't  it? 
Somethin'  square  tied  up  in  a  rubber  bag.  Maybe 
it's  dynamite — or  somethin' — you  can't  never  tell. 

JACK — Aw,  it  ain't  got  no  works  so  it  ain't  no 
bomb,  I'll  bet. 

DAVIS — [Dubiously]  They  makes  them  alf 
kinds,  they  do. 

JACK — Open  it  up,  Drisc. 

DAVIS — Careful  now!  [DRISCOLL  takes  a' black 
rubber  bag  resembling  a  large  tobacco  pouch  from 
the  box  and  unties  the  string  which  is  wound  tightly 
around  the  top.  He  opens  it  and  takes  out  a  small 
packet  of  letters  also  tied  up  with  string.  He 
turns  these  over  in  his  hands  and  looks  at  the  others 
guestioningly.  ] 

JACK — [With     a    broad    grm]     On'y    letters! 


IN  THE  ZONE  109 

[Slapping  DAVIS  on  the  back.]  Yuh're  a  hell  of  a 
Sherlock  Holmes,  ain't  yuh?  Letters  from  his  best 
girl  too,  I'll  bet.  Let's  turn  the  Duke  loose,  what 
d'yuh  say?  [He  starts  to  get  up.] 

DAVIS — [Fixmg  him  with  a  withering  look.] 
Don't  be  so  damn  smart,  Jack.  Letters,  you  says, 
's  if  there  never  was  no  harm  in  'em.  How  d'you 
s'pose  spies  gets  their  orders  and  sends  back  what 
they  finds  out  if  it  ain't  by  letters  and  such  things? 
There's  many  a  letter  is  worser'n  any  bomb. 

COCKY — Righto !  They  ain't  as  innercent  as 
they  looks,  I'll  take  me  oath,  when  you  read  'em. 
[Pointing  at  SMITTY.]  Not  'is  Lordship's  letters; 
not  be  no  means ! 

JACK — [Sitting  dowrt  agafn.]  Well,  read  *em 
and  find  out.  [DRISCOLL  commences  untying  the 
packet.  There  is  a  muffled  groan  of  rage  and  pro 
test  from  SMITTY.] 

DAVIS — [Triumphantly.]  There!  Listen  to  him! 
Look  at  him  tryin'  to  git  loose!  Ain't  that  proof 
enough?  He  knows  well  we're  findin'  him  out. 
Listen  to  me!  Love  letters,  you  says,  Jack,  's  if 
they  couldn't  harm  nothin'.  Listen !  I  was  readin' 
in  some  magazine  in  New  York  on'y  two  weeks  back 
how  some  German  spy  in  Paris  was  writin'  love  let 
ters  to  some  woman  spy  in  Switzerland  who  sent 
'em  on  to  Berlin,  Germany.  To  read  'em  you 
wouldn't  s'pect  nothin' — just  mush  and  all.  [Im 
pressively.]  But  they  had  a  way  o'  doin'  it — a 


110  IN  THE  ZONE 

damn  sneakin'  way.  They  had  a  piece  o*  plain 
paper  with  pieces  cut  out  of  it  an'  when  they  puts 
it  on  top  o'  the  letter  they  sees  on'y  the  words  what 
tells  them  what  they  wants  to  know.  An'  the 
Frenchies  gets  beat  in  a  fight  all  on  account  o'  that 
letter. 

COCKY — [Awed.]  Gawd  blimey!  They  ain't 
*arf  smart  bleeders ! 

DAVIS — [Seeing  his  audience  is  again  all  with 
him.]  An'  even  if  these  letters  of  his  do  sound  all 
right  they  may  have  what  they  calls  a  code.  You 
can't  never  tell.  [To  DRISCOI/L,  who  has  finished 
untying  the  packet.]  Read  one  of  'em,  Drisc.  My 
eyes  is  weak. 

DRISCOI/L — [Takes  the  first  one  out  of  its  en 
velope  and  bends  down  to  the  lantern  with  it.  He 
turns  up  the  wick  to  give  him  a  better  light.]  I'm 
no  hand  to  be  readin'  but  I'll  try  ut.  [Again  there 
is  a  muffled  groan  from  SMITTY  as  he  strains  at  his 
bonds.] 

DAVIS — [Gloatingly.]  Listen  to  him!  He  knows. 
Go  ahead,  Drisc! 

DRISCOLL — [His  brow  furrowed  with  concentra 
tion.]  Ut  begins:  Dearest  Man [His  eyes 

travel  down  the  page.]  An'  thin  there's  a  lot  av 
blarney  tellin'  him  how  much  she  misses  him  now 
she's  gone  away  to  singin'  school — an'  how  she 
hopes  he'll  settle  down  to  rale  worrk  an'  not  be  sky- 
larkin'  around  now  that  she's  away  loike  he  used 


IN  THE  ZONE  111 

to  before  she  met  up  wid  him — and  tit  ends :  "I  love 
you  betther  than  anythin'  in  the  worrld.  You  know 
that,  don't  you,  dear?  But  b'fore  I  can  agree  to 
live  out  my  life  wid  you,  you  must  prove  to  me  that 
the  black  shadow — I  won't  menshun  uts  hateful 
name  but  you  know  what  I  mean — which  might 
wreck  both  our  lives,  does  not  exist  for  you.  You 
can  do  that,  can't  you,  dear?  Don't  you  see  you 
must  for  my  sake?"  [He  pauses  for  a  moment — 
then  adds  gruffly. ~\  Uts  signed:  "Edith."  [At  the 
sound  of  the  name  SMITTY,  who  has  stood  tensely 
with  his  eyes  shut  as  if  he  were  undergoing  torture 
during  the  reading,  makes  a  muffled  sound  like  a 
sob  and  half  turns  his  face  to  the  wall.] 

JACK — [Sympathetically. ]  Hell!  What's  the 
use  of  readin'  that  stuff  even  if— 

DAVIS — [Interrupting  him  sharply.~\  Wait! 
Where's  that  letter  from,  Drisc? 

DRISCOI/L — There's  no  address  on  the  top  av  ut. 

DAVIS — [Meaningly]  What'd  I  tell  you?  Look 
at  the  postmark,  Drisc, — on  the  envelope. 

DRISCOLL — The  name  that's  written  is  Sidney 
Davidson,  wan  hundred  an' • 

DAVIS — Never  mind  that.  O'  course  it's  a  false 
name.  Look  at  the  postmark. 

DRISCOLL — There's  a  furrin  stamp  on  ut  by  the 
looks  av  ut.  The  mark's  blurred  so  it's  hard  to 
read.  [He  spells  it  out  laboriously.]  B-e-r — the 
ju'xt  is  an  1,  I  think — i — an*  an  n. 


IN  THE  ZONE 

DAVIS — [Excitedly.]  Berlin!  What  did  I  tell 
you?  I  knew  them  letters  was  from  Germany. 

COCKY — [Shaking  his  fist  in  SMITTY'S  direction.} 
Rotten  'ound!  [The  others  look  at  SMITTY  as  if 
this  last  fact  had  utterly  condemned  him  in  their 
eyes.] 

DAVIS — Give  me  the  letter,  Drisc.  Maybe  I  kin 
make  somethin'  out  of  it.  [DEISCOLL  hands  the  let 
ter  to  him]  You  go  through  the  others,  Drisc, 
and  sing  out  if  you  sees  anythin'  queer.  [He  bends 
over  the  first  letter  as  if  he  were  determined  to  -fig 
ure  out  its  secret  meaning.  JACK,  COCKY  and 
SCOTTY  look  over  his  shoulder  with  eager  curiosity. 
DRISCOLL,  takes  out  some  of  the  other  letters,  run 
ning  his  eyes  quickly  down  the  pages.  He  looks 
curiously  over  at  SMITTY  from  time  to  time,  and 
sighs  frequently  with  a  puzzled  frown] 

DAVIS — [Disappointedly]  I  gotter  give  it  up. 
It's  too  deep  for  me,  but  we'll  turn  'em  over  to  the 
perlice  when  we  docks  at  Liverpool  to  look  through. 
This  one  I  got  was  written  a  year  before  the  war 
started,  anyway.  Find  anythin'  in  yours,  Drisc? 

DRISCOLL — They're  all  the  same  as  the  first — 
lovin'  blarney,  an'  how  her  singin'  is  doin',  and  the 
great  things  the  Dutch  teacher  says  about  her  voice, 
an'  how  glad  she  is  that  her  Sidney  bye  is  worrkin' 
harrd  an'  makin*  a  man  av  himself  for  her  sake. 
[SMITTY  turns  his  face  completely  to  the  wall] 

DAVIS — [Disgustedly.]     If  we  on'y  had  the  code! 


IN  THE  ZONE  113 

DRISCOLL — [Takmg  up  the  bottom  letter, ,] 
Hullo !  Here's  wan  addressed  to  this  ship — s.  s. 
Glencairn,  ut  says — whin  we  was  in  Cape  Town 

sivin  months  ago [Looking  at  the  postmark.] 

Ut's  from  London. 

DAVIS — [Eagerly.]  Read  it!  [There  is  an 
other  choking  groan  from  SMITTY.] 
'  DRISCOLL — [Reads  slowly — his  voice  becomes 
lower  and  lower  as  he  goes  on.~\  Ut  begins  wid 
simply  the  name  Sidney  Davidson — no  dearest  or 
sweetheart  to  this  wan.  "Ut  is  only  from  your 
chance  meetin*  wid  Harry — whin  you  were  drunk — 
that  I  happen  to  know  where  to  reach  you.  So  you 
have  run  away  to  sea  loike  the  coward  you  are  be 
cause  you  knew  I  had  found  out  the  truth — the 
truth  you  have  covered  over  with  your  mean  little 
lies  all  the  time  I  was  away  in  Berlin  and  blindly 
trusted  you.  Very  well,  you  have  chosen.  You 
have  shown  that  your  drunkenness  means  more  to 
you  than  any  love  or  faith  av  mine.  I  am  sorry — 
for  I  loved  you,  Sidney  Davidson — but  this  is  the 
end.  I  lave  you — the  memories;  an*  if  ut  is  any 
satisfaction  to  you  I  lave  you  the  real-i-zation  that 
you  have  wrecked  my  loife  as  you  have  wrecked 
your  own.  My  one  remainin'  hope  is  that  nivir  in 
God's  worrld  will  I  ivir  see  your  face  again.  Good- 
by.  Edith."  [As  he  finishes  there  is  a  deep 
silence,  broken  only  by  SMITTY'S  muffled  sobbing. 
The  men  cannot  look  at  each  other.  DRISCOLL 


"114  IN  THE  ZONE 

"holds  the  rubber  bag  limply  in  his  hand  and  some 
small  white  object  falls  out  of  it  and  drops  noise 
lessly  on  the  floor.  Mechanically  DRISCOI/L  leans 
over  and  picks  it  up,  and  looks  at  it  wonderingly.~\ 

DAVIS — \In  a  dull  voice.]     What's  that? 

DRISCOLL — [Slowly. ,]  A  bit  av  a  dried-up 
flower, — a  rose,  maybe.  [He  drops  it  into  the  bag 
and  gathers  up  the  letters  and  puts  them  back.  He 
replaces  the  bag  in-  the  box,  and  locks  it  and  puts 
it  back  under  SMITTY'S  mattress.  The  others  fol 
low  him  with  their  eyes.  He  steps  softly  over 
to  SMITTY  and  cuts  the  ropes  about  his  arms  and 
ankles  with  his  sheath  knife,  and  unties  the  handker 
chief  over  the  gag.  SMITTY  does  not  turn  around 
but  covers  his  face  with  his  hands  and  leans  his  head 
against  the  wall.  His  shoulders  continue  to  heave 
spasmodically  but  he  makes  no  further  sound] 

DRISCOLL — [Stalks  back  to  the  others — there  is 
a  moment  of  silence,  in  which  each  man  is  in  agony 
with  the  hopelessness  of  finding  a  word  he  can  say — • 
then  DRISCOLL  explodes:]  God  stiffen  us,  are  we 
never  goin'  to  turn  in  fur  a  wink  av  sleep?  [They 
all  start  as  if  awakening  from  a  bad  dream  and 
gratefully  crawl  into  their  bunks,  shoes  and  all, 
turning  their  faces  to  the  wall,  and  pulling  their 
blankets  up  over  their  shoulders.  SCOTTY  tiptoes 
past  SMITTY  out  into  the  darkness..  .DRISCOLL 
turns  down  the  light  and  crawls  into  his  bunk  as 
[The  Curtain  Falls] 


ILE 

A  Play  In  One  Act 


CHARACTERS 

BEN,  the  cabin  boy 
THE  STEWARD 
CAPTAIN  KEENEY 
SLOCUM,  second  mate 
MRS.  KEENEY 
JOE,  a  Jiarpooner 

Members  of  the  crew  of  the  steam  whaler  Atlantic 
Queen. 


ILE 


SCENE — CAPTAIN  KEENEY'S  cabin  on  board  the 
steam  whaling  ship  Atlantic  Queen — a  small, 
square  compartment  about  eight  feet  high  with 
a  skylight  in  the  center  looking  out  on  the 
poop  deck.  On  the  left  [the  stern  of  the 
ship]  a  long  bench  with  rough  cushions  is 
built  in  against  the  wall.  In  front  of  the 
bench,  a  table.  Over  the  bench,  several  cur 
tained  portholes. 

In  the  rear,  left,  a  door  leading  to  the  cap 
tain's  sleeping  quarters.  To  the  right  of  the 
door  a  small  organ,  looking  as  if  it  were  brand 
new,  is  placed  against  the  wall. 

On  the  right,  to  the  rear,  a  marble-topped 
sideboard.  On  the  sideboard,  a  woman's  sew 
ing  basket.  Farther  forward,  a  doorway 
leading  to  the  companion  way,  and  past  the 
officer's  quarters  to  the  main  deck. 

In  the  center  of  the  room,  a  stove.  From 
the  middle  of  the  ceiling  a  hanging  lamp  is 
suspended.  The  walls  of  the  cabin  are  painted 
white. 

117 


118  ILE 

There  is  no  rolling  of  the  ship,  and  the  light 
which  comes  through  the  skylight  is  sickly  and 
faint,  indicating  one  of  those  gray  days  of 
calm  when  ocean  and  sky  are  alike  dead.  The 
silence  is  unbroken  except  for  the  measured 
tread  of  some  one  walking  up  and  down  on  the 
poop  deck  overhead. 

It  is  nearing  two  bells — one  o'clock — in  the 
afternoon  of  a  day  in  the  year  1895. 

At  the  rise  of  the  curtain  there  is  a  moment 
of  interne  silence.  Then  the  STEWARD  enters 
and  commences  to  clear  the  table  of  the  few 
dishes  which  still  remain  on  it  after  the  CAP 
TAIN'S  dinner.  He  is  an  old,  grizzled  man 
dressed  in  dungaree  pants,  a  sweater,  and  a 
woolen  cap  with  ear  flaps.  His  manner  is 
sullen  and  angry.  He  stops  stacking  up  the 
plates  and  casts  a  quick  glance  upward  at  the 
skylight;  then  tiptoes  over  to  the  closed  door 
in  rear  and  listens  with  his  ear  pressed  to  the 
crack.  What  he  hears  makes  his  face  darken 
and  he  mutters  a  furious  curse.  There  is  a 
noise  from  the  doorway  on  the  right  and  he 
darts  back  to  the  table. 

BEN  enters.  He  is  an  over-grown,  gawky 
boy  with  a  long,  pinched  face.  He  is  dressed 
in  sweater,  fur  cap,  etc.  His  teeth  are  chat 
tering  with  the  cold  and  he  hurries  to  the 
stove 9  where  lie  stands  for  a  moment  shivering, 


ILE  119 

blowing  on  his  hands,  slapping  them  against 
his  sides,  on  the  verge  of  crying. 

THE  STEWARD — [In  relieved  tones — seeing  who  it 
is.]  Oh,  'tis  you,  is  it?  What' re  ye  shiverin* 
'bout?  Stay  by  the  stove  where  ye  belong  and 
ye'll  find  no  need  of  chatterin'. 

BEN — It's  c-c-cold.  [Trying  to  control  his  chat 
tering  teeth — derisively.]  Who  d'ye  think  it 
were — the  Old  Man? 

THE  STEWARD — [Makes  d  threatening  move — 
BEN  shrinks  away.]  None  o'  your  lip,  young  un, 
or  I'll  learn  ye.  [More  kindly.]  Where  was  it 
ye've  been  all  o'  the  time — the  fo'c's'tle? 

BEN— Yes. 

THE  STEWARD — Let  the  Old  Man  see  ye  up 
for'ard  monkeyshinin'  with  the  hands  and  ye'll  get 
a  hidin'  ye'll  not  forget  in  a  hurry. 

BEN — Aw,  he  don't  see  nothin'.  [A  trace  of  awe 
in  his  tones — he  glances  upward.]  He  just  walks  up 
and  down  like  he  didn't  notice  nobody — and  stares 
at  the  ice  to  the  no'the'ard. 

THE  STEWARD — [The  same  tone  of  awe  creeping 
into  his  voice.]  He's  always  starin'  at  the  ice. 
[In  a  sudden  rage,  shaking  his  fist  at  the  skylight.] 
Ice,  ice,  ice!  Damn  him  and  damn  the  ice!  Hold- 
in'  us  in  for  nigh  on  a  year — nothin'  to  see  but 
ice — stuck  in  it  like  a  fly  in  molasses ! 

BEN — [Apprehensively.]     Ssshh!    He'll  hear  ye. 


120  ILE 

THE  STEWARD — [Raging. ,]  Aye,  damn  him,  and 
damn  the  Arctic  seas,  and  damn  this  stinkin'  whalin' 
ship  of  his,  and  damn  me  for  a  fool  to  ever  ship  on 
it!  [Subsiding  as  if  realizing  the  uselessness  of 
this  outburst — shaking  his  head — slowly,  with  deep 
conviction.]  He's  a  hard  man — as  hard  a  man  as 
ever  sailed  the  seas. 

BEN —  [Solemnly.  ]     Aye. 

THE  STEWARD — The  two  years  we  all  signed  up 
for  are  done  this  day.  Blessed  Christ !  Two  years 
o*  this  dog's  life,  and  no  luck  in  the  fishin',  and 
the  hands  half  starved  with  the  food  runnin'  low, 
rotten  as  it  is ;  and  not  a  sign  of  him  turnin* 
back  for  home!  [Bitterly. ,]  Home!  I  begin  to 
doubt  if  ever  I'll  set  foot  on  land  again.  [Excit 
edly.'}  What  is  it  he  thinks  he'  goin'  to  do?  Keep 
us  all  up  here  after  our  time  is  worked  out  till  the 
last  man  of  us  is  starved  to  death  or  frozen?  We've 
grub  enough  hardly  to  last  out  the  voyage  back  if 
we  started  now.  What  are  the  men  goin'  to  do 
'bout  it?  Did  ye  hear  any  talk  in  the  fo'c's'tle? 

BEN — [Going  over  to  him — in  a  half  whisper.] 
They  said  if  he  don't  put  back  south  for  home  to 
day  they're  goin'  to  mutiny. 

THE  STEWARD — [With  grim  satisfaction.']  Mu 
tiny?  Aye,  'tis  the  only  thing  they  can  do;  and 
serve  him  right  after  the  manner  he's  treated  them — 
's  if  they  wern't  no  better  nor  dogs. 

BEN — The    ice    is    all    broke    up   to    s'uth'ard. 


ILE 

They's  clear  water  's  far  's  you  can  see.  He  ain't 
got  no  excuse  for  not  turnin'  back  for  home,  the 
men  says. 

THE  STEWARD — [Bitterly.'}  He  won't  look  no- 
wheres  but  no'the'ard  where  they's  only  the  ice  to 
see.  He  don't  want  to  see  no  clear  water.  All  he 
thinks  on  is  gittin'  the  ile — 's  if  it  was  our  fault  he 
ain't  had  good  luck  with  the  whales.  [Shaking  Ms 
head.]  I  think  the  man's  mighty  nigh  losin'  his 
senses. 

BEN — [Awed.]     D'you  really  think  he's  crazy? 

THE  STEWARD — Aye,  it's  the  punishment  o'  God 
on  him.  Did  ye  ever  hear  of  a  man  who  wasn't 
crazy  do  the  things  he  does?  [Pointing  to  the  door 
in  rear.]  Who  but  a  man  that's  mad  would  take 
his  woman — and  as  sweet  a  woman  as  ever  was — 
on  a  stinkin'  whalin'  ship  to  the  Arctic  seas  to  be 
locked  in  by  the  rotten  ice  for  nigh  on  a  year,  and 
maybe  lose  her  senses  forever — for  it's  sure  she'll 
never  be  the  same  again. 

BEN — [Sadly.]  She  useter  be  awful  nice  to  me 

before [His  eyes  grow  wide  and  frightened.] 

she  got — like  she  is. 

THE  STEWARD — Aye,  she  was  good  to  all  of  us. 
'Twould  have  been  hell  on  board  without  her;  for 
he's  a  hard  man — a  hard,  hard  man — a  driver  if 
there  ever  was  one.  [TFif/i  a  grim  laugh.]  I  hope 
he's  satisfied  now — drivin'  her  on  till  she's  near  lost 
her  mind.  And  who  could  blame  her?  'Tis  a 


ILE 

God's  wonder  we're  not  a  ship  full  of  crazed  peo 
ple — with  the  damned  ice  all  the  time,  and  the  quiet 
so  thick  you're  afraid  to  hear  your  own  voice. 

BEN — [With  a  frightened  glance  toward  the 
door  on  right.]  She  don't  never  speak  to  me  no 
more — jest  looks  at  me  's  if  she  didn't  know  me. 

THE  STEWARD — She  don't  know  no  one — but  him. 
She  talks  to  him — when  she  does  talk — right 
enough. 

BEN — She  does  nothin'  all  day  long  now  but  sit 
and  sew — and  then  she  cries  to  herself  without 
makin'  no  noise.  I've  seen  her. 

THE  STEWARD — Aye,  I  could  hear  her  through 
the  door  a  while  back. 

BEN — [Tiptoes  over  to  the  door  and  listens] 
She's  cryin'  now. 

THE  STEWARD — [Furiously — shaking  his  fist.] 
God  send  his  soul  to  hell  for  the  devil  he  is ! 
[There  is  the  noise  of  some  one  coming  slowly  down 
the  companionway  stairs.  THE  STEWARD  hurries 
to  his  stacked  up  dishes.  He  is  so  nervous  from 
fright  that  he  knocks  off  the  top  one,  which  falls 
and  breaks  on  the  floor.  He  stands  aghast,  trem 
bling  with  dread.  BEN  is  violently  rubbing  off  the 
organ  with  a  piece  of  cloth  which  he  has  snatched 
from  his  pocket.  CAPTAIN  KEENEY  appears  in  the 
doorway  on  right  and  comes  into  the  cabin,  remov 
ing  his  fur  cap  as  he  does  so.  He  is  a  man  of  about 
forty,  around  five-ten  in  height  but  looking  much 


ELE 

shorter  on  account  of  the  enormous  proportions  of 
his  shoulders  and  chest.  His  face  is  massive  and 
deeply  lined,  tenth  gray-blue  eyes  of  a  bleak  hard 
ness,  and  a  tightly  clenched,  thin-lipped  mouth. 
His  thick  hair  is  long  and  gray.  He  is  dressed  in 
a  heavy  blue  jacket  and  blue  pants  stuffed  into  his 
seaboots. 

[He  is  followed  into  the  cabin  by  the  SECOND 
MATE,  a  rangy  six-footer  with  a  lean  weather- 
beaten  face.  The  MATE  is  dressed  about  the  same 
as  the  captain.  He  is  a  man  of  thirty  or  so.~\ 

KEENEY — [Comes  toward  the  STEWARD — with  a 
stern  look  on  his  face.  Tine  STEWARD  is  visibly 
frightened  and  the  stack  of  dishes  rattles  in  his 
trembling  hands.  KEENEY  draws  back  his  fist  and 
the  STEWARD  shrinks  away.  The  fist  is  gradually 
lowered  and  KEENEY  speaks  slowly.]  'Twould  be 
like  hitting  a  worm.  It  is  nigh  on  two  bells,  Mr. 
Steward,  and  this  truck  not  cleared  yet. 

THE  STEWARD — [Stammering.]     Y-y-yes,  sir. 

KEENEY — Instead  of  doin*  your  rightful  work 
ye've  been  below  here  gossipin'  old  woman's  talk 
with  that  boy.  [To  BEN,  fiercely.]  Get  out  o'  this, 
you!  Clean  up  the  chart  room.  [BEN  darts  past 
the  MATE  to  the  open  doorway.]  Pick  up  that 
dish,  MR.  STEWARD  1 

THE  STEWARD — [Doing  so  with  difficulty.]  Yes, 
sir. 

KEENEY — The  next  dish  you  break,  Mr.  Steward, 


ILE 

you  take  a  bath  in  the  Bering  Sea  at  the  end  of  a 
rope. 

THE  STEWARD — [Tremblingly.]  Yes,  sir.  [He 
hurries  out.  The  SECOND  MATE  walks  slowly  over 
to  the  CAPTAIN.] 

MATE — I  warn't  'specially  anxious  the  man  at 
the  wheel  should  catch  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you, 
sir.  That's  why  I  asked  you  to  come  below. 

KEENEY — [Impatiently.]  Speak  your  say,  Mr. 
Slocum. 

MATE — [Unconsciously  lowering  his  'voice.']  I'm 
afeard  there'll  be  trouble  with  the  hands  by  the 
look  o'  things.  They'll  likely  turn  ugly,  every 
blessed  one  o'  them,  if  you  don't  put  back.  The 
two  years  they  signed  up  for  is  up  to-day. 

KEENEY — And  d'you  think  you're  tellin'  me  some- 
thin'  new,  Mr.  Slocum?  I've  felt  it  in  the  air  this 
long  time  past.  D'you  think  I've  not  seen  their 
ugly  looks  and  the  grudgin'  way  they  worked? 
[The  door  in  rear  is  opened  and  MRS.  KEENEY 
stands  in  the  doorway.  She  is  a  slight,  sweet-faced 
little  woman  primly  dressed  in  black.  Her  eyes  are 
red  from  weeping  and  her  face  drawn  and  pale. 
She  takes  in  the  cabin  with  a  frightened  glance  and 
stands  as  if  fixed  to  the  spot  by  some  nameless 
dread,  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands  nervously. 
The  two  men  turn  and  look  at  her.] 

KEENEY — [With  rough  tenderness.]  Well,  An 
nie? 


ILE  125 

MRS.  KEENEY — [As  if  awakening  -from  a  dream.] 

David,  I [She  is  silent.  The  MATE  starts  for 

the  doorway.] 

KEENEY — [Turning  to  him — sharply.']     Wait! 

MATE — Yes,  sir. 

KEENEY — D'you  want  anything,  Annie? 

MRS.  KEENEY — [After  a  pause,  during  which  she 
seems  to  be  endeavoring  to  collect  her  thoughts.] 
I  thought  maybe — I'd  go  up  on  deck,  David,  to  get 
a  breath  of  fresh  air.  [She  stands  humbly  awaiting 
his  permission.  He  and  the  MATE  exchange  a  sig 
nificant  glance.] 

KEENEY — It's  too  cold,  Annie.  You'd  best  stay 
below  to-day.  There's  nothing  to  look  at  on  deck 
• — but  ice. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Monotonously.]  I  know — ice, 
ice,  ice!  But  there's  nothing  to  see  down  here  but 
these  walls.  [She  makes  a  gesture  of  loathing.] 

KEENEY — You  can  play  the  organ,  Annie. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Dully.]  I  hate  the  organ.  It 
puts  me  in  mind  of  home. 

KEENEY — [A  touch  of  resentment  in  his  voice.] 
I  got  it  jest  for  you. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Dully.]  I  know.  [She  turns 
away  from  them  and  walks  slowly  to  the  bench  on 
left.  She  lifts  up  one  of  the  curtains  and  looks 
through  a  porthole;  then  utters  an  exclamation  of 
joy.]  Ah,  water!  Clear  water!  As  far  as  I  can 
see!  How  good  it  looks  after  all  these  months  of 


126  ILE 

ice!  [She  turns  round  to  them,  her  face  transfig 
ured  with  joy.]  Ah,  now  I  must  go  upon  deck  and 
look  at  it,  David. 

KEENEY — [Frowning.]  Best  not  to-day,  Annie. 
Best  wait  for  a  day  when  the  sun  shines. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Desperately.]  But  the  sun 
never  shines  in  this  terrible  place. 

KEENEY — [A  tone  of  command  in  his  voice.] 
Best  not  to-day,  Annie. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Crumbling  before  this  command 
— abjectly.]  Very  well,  David.  [She  stands  there 
staring  straight  before  her  as  if  in  a  daze.  The 
two  men  look  at  her  uneasily.] 

KEENEY — [Sharply.]     Annie ! 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Dully.]     Yes,  David. 

KEENEY — Me  and  Mr.  Slocum  has  business  to 
talk  about — ship's  business. 

MRS.  KEENEY — Very  well,  David.  [She  goes 
slowly  out,  rear,  and  leaves  the  door  three-quarters 
shut  behind  her.] 

KEENEY — Best  not  have  her  on  deck  if  they*s 
goin'  to  be  any  trouble. 

MATE — Yes,  sir. 

KEENEY— And  trouble  they's  goin*  to  be.  I  feel 
it  in  my  bones.  [Takes  a  revolver  from  the  pocket 
of  his  coat  and  examines  it.]  Got  your'n? 

MATE — Yes,  sir. 

KEENEY — Not  that  we'll  have  to  use  'em — not  if 
I  know  their  breed  of  dog — jest  to  frighten  *em  up 


ILE  127 

a  bit.  [Grimly.]  I  ain't  never  been  forced  to  use 
one  yit;  and  trouble  I've  had  by  land  and  by  sea 
's  long  as  I  kin  remember,  and  will  have  till  my  dyin' 
day,  I  reckon. 

MATE — [Hesitatingly.]  Then  you  ain't  goin' — 
to  turn  back? 

KEENEY — Turn  back !  Mr.  Slocum,  did  you  ever 
hear  'o  me  pointin'  s'uth  for  home  with  only  a 
measly  four  hundred  barrel  of  ile  in  the  hold? 

MATE — [Hastily.]  No,  sir — but  the  grub's  git- 
tin'  low. 

KEENEY — They's  enough  to  last  a  long  time  yit, 
if  they're  careful  with  it;  and  they's  plenty  o' 
water. 

MATE — They  say  it's  not  fit  to  eat — what's  left; 
and  the  two  years  they  signed  on  fur  is  up  to-day. 
They  might  make  trouble  for  you  in  the  courts 
when  we  git  home. 

KEENEY — To  hell  with  'em !  Let  them  make  what 
law  trouble  they  kin.  I  don't  give  a  damn  'bout 
the  money.  I've  got  to  git  the  ile!  [Glancing 
sharply  at  the  MATE.]  You  ain't  turnin'  no  damned 
sea  lawyer,  be  you,  Mr.  Slocum? 

MATE — [Flushing.]    Not  by  a  hell  of  a  sight,  sir. 

KEENEY — What  do  the  fools  want  to  go  home  fur 
now?  Their  share  o'  the  four  hundred  barrel 
wouldn't  keep  'em  in  chewin'  terbacco. 

MATE — [Slowly.]  They  wants  to  git  back  to 
their  folks  an'  things,  I  s'pose. 


128  ILE 

KEENEY — [Looking  at  him  searchingly]  'N  you 
want  to  turn  back,  too.  [THE  MATE  looks  down 
confusedly  before  his  sharp  gaze.]  Don't  lie,  Mr. 
Slocum.  It's  writ  down  plain  in  your  eyes.  [With 
grim  sarcasm.]  I  hope,  Mr.  Slocum,  you  ain't 
agoin'  to  jine  the  men  agin  me. 

MATE — [Indignantly.]  That  ain't  fair,  sir,  to 
say  sich  things. 

KEENEY — [With  satisfaction]  I  warn't  much 
afeard  o'  that,  Tom.  You  been  with  me  nigh  on 
ten  year  and  I've  learned  ye  whalin*.  No  man  kin 
say  I  ain't  a  good  master,  if  I  be  a  hard  one. 

MATE — I  warn't  thinkin'  of  myself,  sir — 'bout 
turnin'  home,  I  mean.  [Desperately]  But  Mrs. 
Keeney,  sir — seems  like  she  ain't  jest  satisfied  up 
here,  ailin'  like — what  with  the  cold  an'  bad  luck  an' 
the  ice  an'  all. 

KEENEY — [His  face  clouding — rebukmgly  but 
not  severely]  That's  my  business,  Mr.  Slocum. 
I'll  thank  you  to  steer  a  clear  course  o'  that.  [A 
pause]  The  ice'll  break  up  soon  to  no'th'ard.  I 
could  see  it  startin'  to-day.  And  when  it  goes  and 
we  git  some  sun  Annie'll  perk  up.  [Another  pause 
— then  he  bursts  forth]  It  ain't  the  damned  money 
what's  keepin'  me  up  in  the  Northern  seas,  Tom. 
But  I  can't  go  back  to  Homeport  with  a  measly 
four  hundred  barrel  of  ile.  I'd  die  fust.  I  ain't 
never  come  back  home  in  all  my  days  without  a  full 
ship.  Ain't  that  truth? 


ILE  129 

MATE — Yes,  sir;  but  this  voyage  you  been  ice 
bound,  an' 

KEENEY — [Scornfully."]  And  d'you  s'pose  any 
of  'em  would  believe  that — any  o*  them  skippers  I've 
beaten  voyage  after  voyage?  Can't  you  hear  'em 
laughin'  and  sneerin' — Tibbots  'n*  Harris  'n'  Simms 
and  the  rest — and  all  o'  Homeport  makin'  fun  o* 
me?  "Dave  Keeney  what  boasts  he's  the  best  whalin* 
skipper  out  o'  Homeport  comin'  back  with  a  measly 
four  hundred  barrel  of  ile?"  [The  thought  of  this 
drives  him  into  a  frenzy,  and  he  smashes  his  fist 
down  on  the  marble  top  of  the  sideboard.~\  Hell! 
I  got  to  git  the  ile,  I  tell  you.  How  could  I  figger 
on  this  ice?  It's  never  been  so  bad  before  in  the 
thirty  year  I  been  acomin'  here.  And  now  it's 
breakin'  up.  In  a  couple  o'  days  it'll  be  all  gone. 
And  they's  whale  here,  plenty  of  'em.  I  know  they 
is  and  I  ain't  never  gone  wrong  yit.  I  got  to  git 
the  ile!  I  got  to  git  it  in  spite  of  all  hell,  and  by 
God,  I  ain't  agoin'  home  till  I  do  git  it!  [There 
is  the  sound  of  subdued  sobbing  from  the  door  in 
rear.  The  two  men  stand  silent  for  a  moment,  lis 
tening.  Then  KEENEY  goes  over  to  the  door  and 
looks  in.  He  hesitates  for  a  moment  as  if  he  were 
going  to  enter — then  closes  the  door  softly.  JOE, 
the  harpooner,  an  enormous  six-footer  with  a  bat 
tered,  ugly  face,  enters  from  right  and  stands  wait 
ing  for  the  captain  to  notice  him.] 

KEENEY — [Turning  and  seeing  him.~\     Don't  be 


130  ILE 

standin'  there  like  a  gawk,  Harpooner.     Speak  upt 

JOE — [Confusedly.]  We  want — the  men,  sir — 
they  wants  to  send  a  deputation  aft  to  have  a  word 
with  you. 

KEENEY — [Furiously.]     Tell  'em  to  go  to • 

[Checks  himself  and  continues  grimly.]     Tell  'em 
to  come.     I'll  see  'em. 

JOE — Aye,  aye,  sir.     [He  goes  out.] 

KEENEY — [With  a  grim  smile]  Here  it  comes, 
the  trouble  you  spoke  of,  Mr.  Slocum,  and  we'll 
make  short  shift  of  it.  It's  better  to  crush  such 
things  at  the  start  than  let  them  make  headway. 

MATE — [Worriedly]  Shall  I  wake  up  the  First 
and  Fourth,  sir?  We  might  need  their  help. 

KEENEY — No,  let  them  sleep.  I'm  well  able  to 
handle  this  alone,  Mr.  Slocum.  [There  is  the  shuf 
fling  of  footsteps  from  outside  and  five  of  the  crew 
crowd  into  the  cabin,  led  by  JOE.  All  are  dressed 
alike — sweaters,  seaboots,  etc.  They  glance  uneasily 
at  the  CAPTAIN,  twirling  their  fur  caps  in  their 
hands] 

KEENEY — [After  a  pause]  JVell?  Who's  to 
speak  fur  ye? 

JOE — [Stepping  forward  with  an  air  of  bravado] 
I  be. 

KEENEY — [Eyeing  him  up  and  down  coldly]  So 
you  be.  Then  speak  your  say  and  be  quick  about  it. 

JOE — [Trying  not  to  wilt  before  the  CAPTAIN'S 


ILE  131 

glance  and  avoiding  his  eyes.~\  The  time  we  signed 
up  for  is  done  to-day. 

KEENEY — [Icily.]  You're  tellin'  me  no  thin'  I 
don't  know. 

JOE — You  ain't  pintin'  fur  home  yit,  far  's  we  kin 
see. 

KEENEY — No,  and  I  ain't  agoin*  to  till  this  ship 
is  full  of  ile. 

JOE — You  can't  go  no  further  no'the  with  the  ice 
afore  ye. 

KEENEY — The  ice  is  breaking  up. 

JOE — [After  a  slight  pause  during  which  the 
others  mumble  angrily  to  one  another.]  The  grub 
We're  gittin'  now  is  rotten. 

KEENEY — It's  good  enough  fur  ye.  Better  men 
than  ye  are  have  eaten  worse.  [There  is  a  chorus 
of  angry  exclamations  from  the  crowd.~\ 

JOE — [Encouraged  by  this  support.'}  We  ain't 
agoin'  to  work  no  more  less  you  puts  back  for  home. 

KEENEY — [Fiercely. ]    You  ain't,  ain't  you? 

JOE — No ;  and  the  law  courts'll  say  we  was  right. 
, KEENEY — To  hell  with  your  law  courts!  We're 
at  sea  now  and  I'm  the  law  on  this  ship.  [Edging 
up  toward  the  harpooner.~\  And  every  mother's  son 
of  you  what  don't  obey  orders  goes  in  irons.  [There 
are  more  angry  exclamations  from  the  crew.  MRS. 
KEENEY  appears  in  the  doorway  in  rear  and  looks 
on  with  startled  eyes.  None  of  the  men  notice  her.] 

JOE — [With  bravado.]      Then  we're   agoin*  to 


138  ELE 

mutiny  and  take  the  old  hooker  home  ourselves. 
Ain't  we,  boys?  [As  he  turns  his  head  to  look  at 
the  others,  KEENEY'S  fist  shoots  out  to  the  side  of  his 
jaw.  JOE  goes  down  in  a  heap  and  lies  there.  MRS. 
KEENEY  gives  a  shriek  and  hides  her  face  in  her 
hands.  The  men  pull  out  their  sheath  knives  and 
start  a  rush,  but  stop  when  they  find  themselves  con 
fronted  by  the  revolvers  of  KEENEY  and  the  MATE.] 

KEENEY — [His  eyes  and  voice  snapping]  Hold 
still!  [The  men  stand  huddled  together  in  a  sullen 
silence.  KEENEY'S  voice  is  full  of  mockery.]  You've 
found  out  it  ain't  safe  to  mutiny  on  this  ship,  ain't 
you?  And  now  git  for'ard  where  ye  belong, 

and [He  gives  JOE'S  body  a  contemptuous 

kick.]  Drag  him  with  you.  And  remember  the  first 
man  of  ye  I  see  shirkin'  I'll  shoot  dead  as  sure  as 
there's  a  sea  under  us,  and  you  can  tell  the  rest  the 
same.  Git  for'ard  now !  Quick!  [The  men  leave  in 
cowed  silence,  carrying  JOE  with  them.  KEENEY 
turns  to  the  MATE  with  a  short  laugh  and  puts  his 
revolver  back  in  his  pocket.]  Best  get  up  on  deck, 
Mr.  Slocum,  and  see  to  it  they  don't  try  none  of 
their  skulkin'  tricks.  We'll  have  to  keep  an  eye 
peeled  from  now  on.  I  know  'em. 

MATE — Yes,  sir.  [He  goes  out,  right.  KEENEY 
"hears  his  wife's  hysterical  weeping  and  turns  around 
in  surprise — then  walks  slowly  to  her  side.] 

KEENEY — [Putting  an  arm  around  her  shoulder 


ILE  133 

— with  gruff  tenderness.]  There,  there,  Annie. 
Don't  be  afeard.  It's  all  past  and  gone. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Shrinking  away  -from  him.]  Oh, 
I  can't  bear  it!  I  can't  bear  it  any  longer! 

KEENEY — [Gently]     Can't  bear  what,  Annie? 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Hysterically.]  All  this  horrible 
brutality,  and  these  brutes  of  men,  and  this  terrible 
ship,  and  this  prison  cell  of  a  room,  and  the  ice  all 
around,  and  the  silence.  [After  this  outburst  she 
calms  down  and  wipes  her  eyes  with  her  handker 
chief] 

KEENEY — [After  a  pause  'during  which  he  looks 
down  at  her  with  a  puzzled  frown]  Remember,  I 
warn't  hankerin*  to  have  you  come  on  this  voyage, 
Annie. 

MRS.  KEENEY — I  wanted  to  be  with  you,  David, 
don't  you  see?  I  didn't  want  to  wait  back  there 
in  the  house  all  alone  as  I've  been  doing  these  last 
six  years  since  we  were  married — waiting,  and 
watching,  and  fearing — with  nothing  to  keep  my 
mind  occupied — not  able  to  go  back  teaching  school 
on  account  of  being  Dave  Keeney's  wife.  I  used  to 
dream  of  sailing  on  the  great,  wide,  glorious  ocean. 
I  wanted  to  be  by  your  side  in  the  danger  and  vig 
orous  life  of  it  all.  I  wanted  to  see  you  the  hero 
they  make  you  out  to  be  in  Homeport.  And  in 
stead [Her  voice  grows  tremulous]  All  I 

find  is  ice  and  cold — and  brutality!  [Her  voice 
breaks.] 


ILE 

KEENEY — I  warned  you  what  it'd  be,  Annie. 
"Whalin'  ain't  no  ladies'  tea  party,"  I  says  to  you, 
and  "you  better  stay  to  home  where  you've  got  all 
your  woman's  comforts."  [Shaking  his  head.}  But 
you  was  so  set  on  it. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Wearily.]  Oh,  I  know  it  isn't 
your  fault,  David.  You  see,  I  didn't  believe  you.  I 
guess  I  was  dreaming  about  the  old  Vikings  in  the 
story  books  and  I  thought  you  were  one  of  them. 

KEENEY — [Proitestingly.]  I  done  tmy  best  to 
make  it  as  cozy  and  comfortable  as  could  be.  [MRS. 
KEENEY  looks  around  her  in  wild  scorn.]  I  even  sent 
to  the  city  for  that  organ  for  ye,  thinkin'  it  might 
be  soothin'  to  ye  to  be  playin'  it  times  when  they 
was  calms  and  things  was  dull  like. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Wearily.]  Yes,  you  were  very 
kind,  David.  I  know  that.  [She  goes  to  left  and 
lifts  the  curtains  from  the  porthole  and  looks  out — 
then  suddenly  bursts  forth:]  I  won't  stand  it — I 
can't  stand  it — pent  up  by  these  walls  like  a  pris 
oner.  [She  runs  over  to  him  and  throws  her  arms 
around  him,  weeping.  He  puts  his  arm  protectingly 
over  her  shoulders.]  Take  me  away  from  here, 
David!  If  I  don't  get  away  from  here,  out  of  this 
terrible  ship,  I'll  go  mad!  Take  me  home,  David! 
I  can't  think  any  more.  I  feel  as  if  the  cold  and 
the  silence  were  crushing  down  on  my  brain.  I'm 
afraid.  Take  me  home ! 

KEENEY — [Holds  her  at  arm's  length  and  looks 


ELE  135 

at  her  face  anxiously.]  Best  go  to  bed,  Annie.  You 
ain't  yourself.  You  got  fever.  Your  eyes  look  so 
strange  like.  I  ain't  never  seen  you  look  this  way 
before. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Laughing  hysterically.]  It's 
the  ice  and  the  cold  and  the  silence — they'd  make 
any  one  look  strange. 

KEENEY — [Soothingly.]  In  a  month  or  two, 
with  good  luck,  three  at  the  most,  I'll  have  her  filled 
with  ile  and  then  we'll  give  her  everything  she'll 
stand  and  pint  for  home. 

MRS.  KEENEY — But  we  can't  wait  for  that — I 
can't  wait.  I  want  to  get  home.  And  the  men  won't 
wait.  They  want  to  get  home.  It's  cruel,  it's  brutal 
for  you  to  keep  them.  You  must  sail  back.  You've 
got  no  excuse.  There's  clear  water  to  the  south 
now.  If  you've  a  heart  at  all  you've  got  to  turn 
back. 

KEENEY — [Harshly.]     I  can't,  Annie. 

MRS.  KEENEY — Why  can't  you? 

KEENEY — A  woman  couldn't  rightly  understand 
my  reason. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Wildly.]  Because  it's  a  stupid, 
stubborn  reason.  Oh,  I  heard  you  talking  with  the 
second  mate.  You're  afraid  the  other  captains  will 
sneer  at  you  because  you  didn't  come  back  with  a 
full  ship.  You  want  to  live  up  to  your  silly  repu 
tation  even  if  you  do  have  to  beat  and  starve  men 
and  drive  me  mad  to  do  it. 


136  ILE 

KEENEY — {His  jaw  set  stubbornly, ]  It  ain't 
that,  Annie.  Them  skippers  would  never  dare  sneer 
to  my  face.  It  ain't  so  much  what  any  one'd  say — 

but [He  hesitates,  struggling  to  express  Ms 

meaning.']  You  see — I've  always  done  it — since 
my  first  voyage  as  skipper.  I  always  come  back — 
with  a  full  ship* — and — it  don't  seem  right  not  to — 
somehow.  I  been  always  first  whalin'  skipper  out  o' 

Homeport,  and Don't  you  see  my  meaning 

Annie?  [He  glances  at  Tier.  She  is  not  looking  at 
him  but  staring  dully  in  front  of  her,  not  hearing 
a  word  he  is  saying.]  Annie!  [She  comes  to  her 
self  with  a  start]  Best  turn  in,  Annie,  there's  a 
good  woman.  You  ain't  well. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Resisting  his  attempts  to  guide 
her  to  the  door  in  rear]  David !  Won't  you  please 
turn  back? 

KEENEY — [Gently]  I  can't,  Annie — not  yet 
awhile.  You  don't  see  my  meanin'.  I  got  to  git  the 
ile. 

MRS.  KEENEY — It'd  be  different  if  you  needed  the 
money,  but  you  don't.  You've  got  more  than  plenty. 

KEENEY — [Impatiently]  It  ain't  the  money  I'm 
thinkin'  of.  D'you  think  I'm  as  mean  as  that? 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Dully]  No — I  don't  know — I 

can't  understand [Intensely]  Oh,  I  want  to 

be  home  in  tlfe  old  house  once  more  and  see  my  own 
kitchen  again,  and  hear  a  woman's  voice  talking  to 
me  and  be  able  to  talk  to  her.  Two  years !  It 


ELE  137 

seems  so  long  ago — as  if  I'd  been  dead  and  could 
never  go  back. 

KEENEY — [Worried  "by  her  strange  tone  and  the 
•far-away  look  in  her  eyesJ\  Best  go  to  bed,  Annie. 
You  ain't  well. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Not  appearing  to  hear  him.'] 
I  used  to  be  lonely  when  you  were  away.  I  used 
to  think  Homeport  was  a  stupid,  monotonous  place. 
Then  I  used  to  go  down  on  the  beach,  especially 
when  it  was  windy  and  the  breakers  were  rolling  in, 
and  I'd  dream  of  the  fine  free  life  you  must  be 
leading.  [She  gives  a  laugh  which  is  half  a  sob.~\ 
I  used  to  love  the  sea  then.  [She  pauses;  then  con 
tinues  with  slow  intensity:']  But  now — I  don't  ever 
want  to  see  the  sea  again. 

KEENEY — [Thinking  to  humor  her.]  'Tis  no  fit 
place  for  a  woman,  that's  sure.  I  was  a  fool  to 
bring  ye. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [After  a  pause — passing  her  hand 
over  her  eyes  with  a  gesture  of  pathetic  weariness.] 
How  long  would  it  take  us  to  reach  home — if  we 
started  now? 

KEENEY — [Frowning.'}  'Bout  two  months,  I 
reckon,  Annie,  with  fair  luck. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Counts  on  her  -fingers — then 
murmurs  with  a  rapt  smile. ,]  That  would  be  Au 
gust,  the  latter  part  of  August,  wouldn't  it?  It  was 
on  the  twenty-fifth  of  August  we  were  married, 
David,  wasn't  it? 


138  ILE 

KEENEY — [Trying  to  conceal  the  fact  that  her 
memories  have  moved  him — gruffly.]  Don't  you  re 
member  ? 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Vaguely — again  passes  her  hand 
over  her  eyes.]  My  memory  is  leaving  me — up  here 
in  the  ice.  It  was  so  long  ago.  [A  pause — then 
she  smiles  dreamily.]  It's  June  now.  The  lilacs 
will  be  all  in  bloom  in  the  front  yard — and  the  climb 
ing  roses  on  the  trellis  to  the  side  of  the  house — 
they're  budding.  [She  suddenly  covers  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  commences  to  sob.] 

KEENEY — [Disturbed.]  Go  in  and  rest,  Annie. 
You're  all  wore  out  cryin'  over  what  can't  be  helped. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Suddenly  throwing  her  arms 
around  his  neck  and  clinging  to  him.]  You  love  me, 
don't  you,  David? 

KEENEY — [In  amazed  embarrassment  at  this  out 
burst.]  Love  you?  Why  d'you  ask  me  such  a 
question,  Annie? 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Shaking  him — fiercely.]  But 
you  do,  don't  you,  David  ?  Tell  me ! 

KEENEY — I'm  your  husband,  Annie,  and  you're 
my  wife.  Could  there  be  aught  but  love  between 
us  after  all  these  years? 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Shaking  him  again — still  more 
fiercely.]  Then  you  do  love  me.  Say  it! 

KEENEY — [Simply.]     I  do,  Annie. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Gives  a  sigh  of  relief — her  hands 
drop  to  her  sides.  Keeney  regards  her  an&iously. 


ILE  139 

She  passes  Tier  "hand  across  her  eyes  and  murmurs 
half  to  herself:]  I  sometimes  think  if  we  could  only 
have  had  a  child.  [KEENEY  turns  away  from  her, 
deeply  moved.  She  grabs  his  arm  and  turns  him 
around  to  face  her — intensely.']  And  I've  always 
been  a  good  wife  to  you,  haven't  I,  David? 

KEENEY — [His  voice  betraying  his  emotion.]  No 
man  has  ever  had  a  better,  Annie. 

MRS.  KEENEY — And  I've  never  asked  for  much 
from  you,  have  I,  David?  Have  I? 

KEENEY — You  know  you  could  have  all  I  got  the 
power  to  give  ye,  Annie. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Wildly.]  Then  do  this  this  once 
for  my  sake,  for  God's  sake — take  me  home !  It's  kill 
ing  me,  this  life — the  brutality  and  cold  and  horror 
of  it.  I'm  going  mad.  I  can  feel  the  threat  in  the 
air.  I  can  hear  the  silence  threatening  me — day 
after  gray  day  and  every  day  the  same.  I  can't 
bear  it.  [Sobbing.]  I'll  go  mad,  I  know  I  will. 
Take  me  home,  David,  if  you  love  me  as  you  say. 
I'm  afraid.  For  the  love  of  God,  take  me  home! 
[She  throws  her  arms  around  him,  weeping  against 
his  shoulder.  His  face  betrays  the  tremendous 
struggle  going  on  within  him.  He  holds  her  out  at 
arm's  length,  his  expression  softening.  For  a  mo 
ment  his  shoulders  sag,  he  becomes  old,  his  iron 
spirit  weakens  as  he  looks  at  her  tear-stained  face.] 

KEENEY — [Dragging  out  the  words  with  an  ef- 


140  ILE 

fort.]  I'll  do  it,  Annie — for  your  sake — if  you  say 
it's  needful  for  ye. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [With  wild  joy — kissing  him.] 
God  bless  you  for  that,  David!  [He  turns  away 
from  her  silently  and  walks  toward  the  companion- 
way.  Just  at  that  moment  there  is  a  clatter  of 
footsteps  on  the  stairs  and  the  SECOND  MATE  enters 
the  cabin.] 

MATE — [Excitedly.]  The  ice  is  breakin'  up  to 
no'the'ard,  sir.  There's  a  clear  passage  through 
the  floe,  and  clear  water  beyond,  the  lookout  says. 
[KEENEY  straightens  himself  like  a  man  coming  out 
of  a  trance.  MRS.  KEENEY  looks  at  the  MATE  with 
terrified  eyes.] 

KEENEY — [Dazedly — trying  to  collect  his 
thoughts.]  A  clear  passage?  To  no'the'ard? 

MATE — Yes,  sir. 

KEENEY — [His  voice  suddenly  grim  with  deter 
mination.]  Then  get  her  ready  and  we'll  drive  her 
through. 

MATE — Aye,  aye,  sir. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Appealingly.]     David! 

KEENEY — [Not  heeding  her.]  Will  the  men  turn 
to  willin'  or  must  we  drag  'em  out? 

MATE — They'll  turn  to  willin'  enough.  You  put 
the  fear  o'  God  into  'em,  sir.  They're  meek  as 
lambs. 

KEENEY — Then  drive  'em — both  watches.     [With 


ILE 

grim  determination.]  They's  whale  t'other  side  o' 
this  floe  and  we're  going  to  git  'em. 

MATE — Aye,  aye,  sir.  [He  goes  out  hurriedly. 
A  moment  later  there  is  the  sound  of  scuffling  feet 
from  the  deck  outside  and  the  MATE'S  voice  shouting 
orders.] 

KEENEY — [Speaking  aloud  to  himself — deri 
sively.]  And  I  was  agoin'  home  like  a  yaller  dog! 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Imploringly.]     David! 

KEENEY — [Sternly.]  Woman,  you  ain't  adorn' 
right  when  you  meddle  in  men's  business  and  weaken 
'em.  You  can't  know  my  feelin's.  I  got  to  prove  a 
man  to  be  a  good  husband  for  ye  to  take  pride  in. 
I  got  to  git  the  ile,  I  tell  ye. 

MRS.  KEENEY — [Supplicatingly.]  David!  Aren't 
you  going  home? 

KEENEY — [Ignoring  this  question  —  command- 
ingly.]  You  ain't  well.  Go  and  lay  down  a  mite. 
[He  starts  for  the  door.]  I  got  to  git  on  deck. 
[He  goes  out.  She  cries  after  him  in  anguish:] 
David !  [A  pause.  She  passes  her  hand  across  her 
eyes — then  commences  to  laugh  hysterically  and  goes 
to  the  organ.  She  sits  down  and  starts  to  play 
wildly  an  old  hymn.  KEENEY  reenters  from  the  door 
way  to  the  deck  and  stands  looking  at  her  angrily. 
He  comes  over  and  grabs  her  roughly  by  the  shoul 
der.] 

KEENEY — Woman,  what  foolish  mockin'  is  this? 
[She  laughs  wildly  and  he  starts  back  from  her  in 


ELE 

alarm.]  Annie!  What  is  it?  [She  doesn't  answer 
him.  KEENEY'S  voice  trembles.]  Don't  you  know 
me,  Annie?  [He  puts  both  hands  on  her  shoulders 
and  turns  her  around  so  that  he  can  look  into  her 
eyes.  She  stares  up  at  him  with  a  stupid  expression, 
a  vague  smile  on  her  lips.  He  stumbles  away  from 
her,  and  she  commences  softly  to  play  the  organ 
again.] 

KEENEY — [Swallowing  hard — in  a  hoarse  whis 
per,  as  if  he  had  difficulty  in  speaking.]  You  said 
— you  was  a-goin'  mad — God !  [ A  long  wail  is 
heard  from  the  deck  above.]  Ah  bl-o-o-o-ow!  [A 
moment  later  the  MATE'S  face  appears  through  the 
skylight.  He  cannot  see  MRS.  KEENEY.] 

MATE — [In  great  excitement.]  Whales,  sir — a 
whole  school  of  'em — off  the  star'b'd  quarter  'bout 
five  mile  away — big  ones  ! 

KEENEY — [Galvanized  into  action.]  Are  you 
lowerin'  the  boats? 

MATE — Yes,  sir. 

KEENEY — [With  grim  decision.]  I'm  a-comin' 
with  ye. 

MATE — Aye,  aye,  sir.  [Jubilantly.]  You'll  git 
the  ile  now  right  enough,  sir.  [His  head  is  with 
drawn  and  he  can  be  heard  shouting  orders.] 

KEENEY — [Turning  to  his  wife.]  Annie!  Did 
you  hear  him  ?  I'll  git  the  ile.  [She  doesn't  answer 
or  seem  to  know  he  is  there.  He  gives  a  hard  laugh, 
which  is  almost  a  groan.]  I  know  you're  foolin'  me, 


ILE 

Annie.  You  ain't  out  of  your  mind — [Anxiously.] 
be  you?  I'll  git  the  ile  now  right  enough — jest  a  little 
while  longer,  Annie — then  we'll  turn  hom'ard.  I 
can't  turn  back  now,  you  see  that,  don't  ye?  I've 
got  to  git  the  ile.  [In  sudden  terror.]  Answer  me ! 
You  ain't  mad,  be  you?  [She  keeps  on  playing  the 
organ,  but  makes  no  reply.  The  MATE'S  face  ap 
pears  again  through  the  skylight.] 

MATE — All  ready,  sir.  [KEENEY  turns  his  back 
on  his  wife  and  strides  to  the  doorway,  where  he 
stands  for  a  moment  and  looks  back  at  her  in 
anguish,  fighting  to  control  his  feelings.] 

MATE — Comin',  sir? 

KEENEY — [His  face  suddenly  grown  hard  with 
determination.]  Aye.  [He  turns  abruptly  and  goes 
out.  MRS.  KEENEY  does  not  appear  to  notice  his 
departure.  Her  whole  attention  seems  centered  in 
the  organ.  She  sits  with  half-closed  eyes,  her  body 
swaying  a  little  from  side  to  side  to  the  rhythm  of 
the  hymn.  Her  fingers  move  faster  and  faster  and 
she  is  playing  wildly  and  discordantly  as 

[The  Curtain  Falls] 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

A  Play  In  One  Act 


CHARACTERS 

CAPTAIN  ISAIAH  BARTLETT 
NAT  BARTLETT,  Ms  son 
SUE  BARTLETT,  his  daughter 
DOCTOR  HIGGINS 

SILAS  HORNE,  mate 

„  ,    ,  ,  of  the  schooner  Mary 

GATES,  bo  sun  >     *  J 

„  7  -Allen 

JIMMY  KANAKA,  harpooner  J 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 


SCENE — Captain  Bartlett's  "cabin" — a  room  erected 
as  a  lookout  post  at  the  top  of  his  house  situ 
ated  on  a  high  point  of  land  on  the  California 
coast.  The  inside  of  the  compartment  is  fitted 
up  like  the  captain's  cabin  of  a  deep-sea  sailing 
vessel.  On  the  left,  forward,  a  porthole. 
Farther  back,  the  stairs  of  the  companionway. 
Still  farther,  two  more  portholes.  In  the  rear, 
left,  a  marble-topped  sideboard  with  a  ship's 
lantern  on  it.  In  the  rear,  center,  a  door  open 
ing  on  stairs  which  lead  to  the  lower  house.  A 
cot  with  a  blanket  is  placed  against  the  wall  to 
the  right  of  the  door.  In  the  right  wall,  five 
portholes.  Directly  under  them,  a  wooden 
bench.  In  front  of  the  bench,  a  long  table 
with  two  straight-backed  chairs,  one  in  front, 
the  other  to  the  left  of  it.  A  cheap,  dark-col 
ored  rug  is  on  the  floor.  In  the  ceiling,  mid 
way  from  front  to  rear,  a  skylight  extending 
from  opposite  the  door  to  above  the  left  edge 
of  the  table.  In  the  right  extremity  of  the  sky 
light  is  placed  a  floating  ship's  compass.  The 
147 


148      WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

light  from  the  binnacle  sheds  over  this  from 
above  and  seeps  down  into  the  room,  casting 
a  vague  globular  shadow  of  the  compass  on  the 
•floor. 

The  time  is  an  early  hour  of  a  clear  windy 
night  in  the  fall  of  the  year  1900.  Moonlight, 
winnowed  by  the  wind  which  moam  in  the  stub 
born  angles  of  the  old  house,  creeps  wearily  in 
through  the  portholes  and  rests  like  tired  dust 
in  circular  patches  upon  the  floor  and  table. 
An  insistent  monotone  of  thundering  surf,  muf 
fled  and  far-off,  is  borne  upward  from  the  beach 
below. 

After  the  curtain  rises  the  door  in  the  rear 
is  opened  slowly  and  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  NAT  BARTLETT  appear  over  the  sill.  He  casts 
a  quick  glance  about  the  room,  and  seeing  no 
one  there,  ascends  the  remaining  steps  and  en 
ters.  He  makes  a  sign  to  some  one  in  the  dark 
ness  beneath:  "All  right,  Doctor."  DOCTOE 
HIGGINS  follows  him  into  the  room  and,  closing 
the  door,  stands  looking  with  great  curiosity 
around  him.  He  is  a  slight,  medium-sized  pro 
fessional-looking  man  of  about  thirty-five. 
NAT  BARTLETT  is  very  tall,  gaunt,  and  loose- 
framed.  His  right  arm  has  been  amputated 
at  the  shoulder  and  the  sleeve  on  that  side  of 
the  heavy  mackinaw  he  wears  hangs  flabbily 
or  flaps  against  his  body  as  he  moves.  He  ap- 


WHERE  THE  CKOSS  IS  MADE       149 

pears  much  older  than  his  thirty  years.  His 
shoulders  have  a  weary  stoop  as  if  worn  down 
by  the  burden  of  his  massive  head  with  its  heavy 
shock  of  tangled  black  hair.  His  face  is  long, 
bony,  and  sallow,  with  deep-set  black  eyes,  a 
large  aquiline  nose,  a  wide  thin-lipped  mouth 
shadowed  by  an  unkempt  bristle  of  mustache. 
His  voice  is  low  and  deep  with  a  penetrating, 
hollow,  metallic  quality.  In  addition  to  the 
mackinaw,  he  wears  corduroy  trousers  stuffed 
down  into  high  laced  boots. 

NAT — Can  you  see,  Doctor? 

HIGGINS — [In  the  too-casual  tones  which  betray 
an  inward  uneasiness.]  Yes — perfectly — don't 
trouble.  The  moonlight  is  so  bright — 

NAT — Luckily.  {Walking  slowly  toward  the 
table.]  He  doesn't  want  any  light — lately — only 
the  one  from  the  binnacle  there. 

HIGGINS — He?     Ah — you  mean  your  father? 

NAT — [Impatiently.]     Who  else? 

HIGGINS — [A  bit  startled — gazing  around  him  in 
embarrassment]  I  suppose  this  is  all  meant  to  be 
like  a  ship's  cabin? 

NAT — Yes — as  I  warned  you. 

HIGGINS — {In  surprise.]  Warned  me?  Why, 
warned?  I  think  it's  very  natural — and  interesting 
— this  whim  of  his. 

NAT — [Meaningly.]    Interesting,  it  may  be. 


150       WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

HIGGINS — And  he  lives  up  here,  you  said — nevei 
comes  down? 

NAT — Never — for  the  past  three  years.  My  sis 
ter  brings  his  food  up  to  him.  [He  sits  down  in  the 
chair  to  the  left  of  the  table.]  There's  a  lantern  on 
the  sideboard  there,  Doctor.  Bring  it  over  and  sit 
down.  We'll  make  a  light.  I'll  ask  your  pardon 
for  bringing  you  to  this  room  on  the  roof — but — 
no  one'll  hear  us  here;  and  by  seeing  for  yourself 

the  mad  way  he  lives Understand  that  I  want 

you  to  get  all  the  facts — just  that,  facts! — and  for 
that  light  is  necessary.  Without  that — they  be 
come  dreams  up  here — dreams,  Doctor. 

HIGGINS — [With  a  relieved  smile  carries  over  the 
lantern.]  It  is  a  trifle  spooky. 

NAT — [Not  seeming  to  notice  this  remark.']  He 
won't  take  any  note  of  this  light.  His  eyes  are  too 
busy — out  there.  [He  flings  his  left  arm  in  a  wide 
gesture  seaward.]  And  if  he  does  notice — well,  let 
him  come  down.  You're  bound  to  see  him  sooner  or 
later.  [He  scratches  a  match  and  lights  the  lan 
tern.] 

HIGGINS — Where  is — he? 

NAT — [Pointing  upward.]  Up  on  the  poop.  Sit 
(down,  man !  He'll  not  come — yet  awhile. 

HIGGINS — [Sitting  gingerly  on  the  chair  in  front 
of  table.]  Then  he  has  the  roof  too  rigged  up  like 
a  ship? 

NAT — I  told  you  he  had.     Like  a  deck,  yes.     A 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       151 

wheel,  compass,  binnacle  light,  the  companionway 
there  [He  points.],  a  bridge  to  pace  up  and  down  on 
— and  keep  watch.  If  the  wind  wasn't  so  high  you'd 
hear  him  now — back  and  forth — all  the  live-long 
night.  [With  a  sudden  harshness.]  Didn't  I  tell 
you  he's  mad? 

HIGGLES — [With  a  professional  air."}  That  was 
nothing  new.  I've  heard  that  about  him  from  all 
sides  since  I  first  came  to  the  asylum  yonder.  You 
say  he  only  walks  at  night — up  there? 

NAT — Only  at  night,  yes.  [Grimly.]  The  things 
he  wants  to  see  can't  be  made  out  in  daylight — 
dreams  and  $uch. 

HIGGINS — But  just  what  is  he  trying  to  see?  Does 
any  one  know?  Does  he  tell? 

NAT — [Impatiently.]  Why,  every  one  knows  what 
Father  looks  for,  man !  The  ship,  of  course. 

HIGGINS — What  ship? 

NAT — His  ship — the  Mary  Allen — named  for  my 
dead  mother. 

HIGGINS — But — I  don't  understand Is  the 

ship  long  overdue — or  what  ? 

NAT — Lost  in  a  hurricane  off  the  Celebes  with  all 
on  board — three  years  ago! 

HIGGINS — [Wonderingly.~\  Ah.  [After  a  pause.] 
But  your  father  still  clings  to  a  doubt 

NAT — There  is  no  doubt  for  him  or  any  one  else 
to  cling  to.  She  was  sighted  bottom  up,  a  complete 
wreck,  by  the  whaler  John  Slocum.  That  was  two 


152      WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

weeks  after  the  storm.  They  sent  a  boat  out  to  read 
her  name. 

HIGGINS — And  hasn't  your  father  ever  heard 

NAT — He  was  the  first  to  hear,  naturally.  Oh, 
he  'knows  right  enough,  if  that's  what  you're  driving 
at.  [He  bends  toward  the  doctor — intensely.']  He 
knows,  Doctor,  he  knows — but  he  won't  believe.  He 
can't — and  keep  living. 

HIGGINS — [Impatiently.]  Come,  Mr.  Bartlett, 
let's  get  down  to  brass  tacks.  You  didn't  drag  me 
up  here  to  make  things  more  obscure,  did  you?  Let's 
have  the  facts  you  spoke  of.  I'll  need  them  to  give 
sympathetic  treatment  to  his  case  when  we  get  him 
to  the  asylum. 

NAT — [Anxiously — lowering  his  voice.]  And 
you'll  come  to  take  him  away  to-night — for  sure? 

HIGGINS — Twenty  minutes  after  I  leave  here  I'll 
be  back  in  the  car.  That's  positive. 

NAT — And  you  know  your  way  through  the 
Souse? 

HIGGINS — Certainly,  I  remember — but  I  don't 
See 

NAT — The  outside  door  will  be  left  open  for  you. 
Vou  must  come  right  up.  My  sister  and  I  will  be 

here — with  him.  And  you  understand Neither 

i)f  us  knows  anything  about  this.  The  authorities 
liave  been  complained  to — not  by  us,  mind — but  by 
Some  one.  He  must  never  know 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       153 

HIGGINS — Yes,  yes — but  still  I  don't Is  he 

liable  to  prove  violent? 

NAT — No — no.  He's  quiet  always — too  quiet; 
but  he  might  do  something — anything — if  he 
knows 

HIGGINS — Rely  on  me  not  to  tell  him,  then;  but 

I'll  bring  along  two  attendants  in  case [He 

breaks  off  and  continues  in  matter-of-fact  tones.] 
And  now  for  the  facts  in  this  case,  if  you  don't  mind, 
Mr.  Bartlett. 

NAT — [Shaking  his  head — moodily, ,]  There  are 

cases  where  facts Well,  here  goes — the  brass 

tacks.  My  father  was  a  whaling  captain  as  his 
father  before  him.  The  last  trip  he  made  was  seven 
years  ago.  He  expected  to  be  gone  two  years.  It 
was  four  before  we  saw  him  again.  His  ship  had 
been  wrecked  in  the  Indian  Ocean.  He  and  six  others 
managed  to  reach  a  small  island  on  the  fringe  of  the 
Archipelago — an  island  barren  as  hell,  Doctor — 
after  seven  days  in  an  open  boat.  The  rest  of  the 
whaling  crew  never  were  heard  from  again — gone 
to  the  sharks.  Of  the  six  who  reached  the  island 
with  my  father  only  three  were  alive  when  a  fleet 
of  Malay  canoes  picked  them  up,  mad  from  thirst 
and  starvation,  the  four  of  them.  These  four  men 
finally  reached  Frisco.  [With  great  emphasis.'] 
They  were  my  father ;  Silas  Home,  the  mate ;  Gates, 
the  bo'sun,  and  Jimmy  Kanaka,  a  Hawaiian  har- 
pooner.  Those  four!  [With  a  forced  laugh.] 


154*      WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

There  are  facts  for  you.  It  was  all  in  the  papers  at 
the  time — my  father's  story. 

HIGGINS — But  what  of  the  other  three  who  were 
on  the  island? 

NAT — [Harshly.]  Died  of  exposure,  perhaps. 
Mad  and  jumped  into  the  sea,  perhaps.  .That  was 
the  told  story.  Another  was  whispered — killed  and 
eaten,  perhaps  !  But  gone — vanished — that,  unde 
niably.  That  was  the  fact.  For  the  rest — who 
knows?  And  what  does  it  matter? 

HIGGINS — [With  a  shudder.]  I  should  think  it 
would  matter — a  lot. 

NAT — {Fiercely.'}  We're  dealing  with  facts,  Doc 
tor!  [With  a  laugh.]  And  here  are  some  more  for 
you.  My  father  brought  the  three  down  to  this 
house  with  him — Home  and  Gates  and  Jimmy  Ka 
naka.  We  hardly  recognized  my  father.  He  had 
been  through  hell  and  looked  it.  His  hair  was  white. 
But  you'll  see  for  yourself — soon.  And  the  others 
— they  were  all  a  bit  queer,  too — mad,  if  you  will. 
[He  laughs  again.]  So  much  for  the  facts,  Doctor. 
They  leave  off  there  and  the  dreams  begin. 

HIGGINS — [Doubtfully. 1  It  would  seem — the 
facts  are  enough. 

NAT — Wait.  [He  resumes  deliberately."]  One 
day  my  father  sent  for  me  and  in  the  presence  of 
the  others  told  me  the  dream.  I  was  to  be  heir  to 
the  secret.  Their  second  day  on  the  island,  he  said, 
they  discovered  in  a  sheltered  inlet  the  rotten,  water- 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       155 

logged  hulk  of  a  Malay  prau — a  proper  war  prau 
such  as  the  pirates  used  to  use.  She  had  been  there 
rotting — God  knows  how  long.  The  crew  had  van 
ished — God  knows  where,  for  there  was  no  sign  on 
the  island  that  man  had  ever  touched  there.  The 
Kanakas  went  over  the  prau — they're  devils  for 
staying  under  water,  you  know — and  they  found — 
in  two  chests — [he  leans  back  in  his  chair  and  smiles 
ironically] — Guess  what,  Doctor? 

HIGGINS — [With  an.  answering  smile.']  Treasure, 
of  course. 

NAT — [Leaning  forward  and  pointing  his  -finger 
accusingly  at  the  other.]  You  see!  The  root  of 
belief  is  in  you,  too!  [Then  he  leans  back  with  a 
hollow  chuckle.]  Why,  yes.  Treasure,  to  be  sure. 
What  else?  They  landed  it  and — you  can  guess  the 
rest,  too — diamonds,  emeralds,  gold  ornaments — • 
innumerable,  of  course.  Why  limit  the  stuff  of 
dreams?  Ha-ha!  [He  laughs  sardonically  as  if 
mocking  himself.] 

HIGGINS — [Deeply  interested.]     And  then? 

NAT — They  began  to  go  mad — hunger,  thirst, 
and  the  rest — and  they  began  to  forget.  Oh,  they 
forgot  a  lot,  and  lucky  for  them  they  did,  probably. 
But  my  father  realizing,  as  he  told  me,  what  was 
happening  to  them,  insisted  that  while  they  still 
knew  what  they  were  doing  they  should — guess  again 
now,  Doctor.  Ha-ha! 

HIGGINS — Bury  the  treasure? 


156      WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

NAT — [Ironically.]  Simple,  isn't  it?  Ha-ha. 
And  then  they  made  a  map — the  same  old  dream, 
you  see — with  a  charred  stick,  and  my  father  had 
care  of  it.  They  were  picked  up  soon  after,  mad 
as  hatters,  as  I  have  told  you,  by  some  Malays. 
[He  drops  his  mocking  and  adopts  a  calm,  deliber 
ate  tone  again.]  But  the  map  isn't  a  dream,  Doc 
tor.  We're  coming  back  to  facts  again.  [He 
reaches  into  the  pocket  of  his  mackinaw  and  pulls 
out  a  crumpled  paper. ]  Here.  [He  spreads  it  out 
on  the  table.'] 

HIGGINS — [Craning  his  neck  eagerly.]  Dammit! 
This  is  interesting.  The  treasure,  I  suppose,  is 
where 

NAT — Where  the  cross  is  made. 

HIGGINS — And  here  are  the  signatures,  I  see.  And 
that  sign? 

NAT — Jimmy  Kanaka's.     He  couldn't  write. 

HIGGINS — And  below?    That's  yours,  isn't  it? 

NAT — As  heir  to  the  secret,  yes.  We  all  signed 
it  here  the  morning  the  Mary  Allen,  the  schooner 
my  father  had  mortgaged  this  house  to  fit  out,  set 
sail  to  bring  back  the  treasure.  Ha-ha. 

HIGGINS — The  ship  he's  still  looking  for — that 
was  lost  three  years  ago? 

NAT — The  Mary  Allen,  yes.  The  other  three  men 
sailed  away  on  her.  Only  father  and  the  mate 
knew  the  approximate  location  of  the  island — and 
I — as  heir.  It's [He  hesitates,  frowning.]  No 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE        157 

matter.  I'll  keep  the  mad  secret.  My  father  wanted 
to  go  with  them — but  my  mother  was  dying.  I 
dared  not  go  either. 

HIGGIXS — Then  you  wanted  to  go?  You  believed 
in  the  treasure  then? 

NAT — Of  course.  Ha-ha.  How  could  I  help  it? 
I  believed  until  my  mother's  death.  Then  Tie  be 
came  mad,  entirely  mad.  He  built  this  cabin — to 
wait  in — and  he  suspected  my  growing  doubt  as  time 
went  on.  So,  as  final  proof,  he  gave  me  a  thing  he 
had  kept  hidden  from  them  all — a  sample  of  the 
richest  of  the  treasure.  Ha-ha.  Behold !  [He  takes 
from  his  pocket  a  heavy  bracelet  thickly  studded 
with  stones  and  throws  it  on  the  table  near  the  lan 
tern.] 

HIGGINS — [Picking  it  up  with  eager  curiosity — 
as  if  in  spite  of  himself.]  Real  jewels? 

NAT — Ha-ha!  You  want  to  believe,  too.  No — 
paste  and  brass — Malay  ornaments. 

HIGGINS — You  had  it  looked  over? 

NAT — Like  a  fool,  yes.  [He  puts  it  back  in  his 
pocket  and  shakes  his  head  as  if  throwing  off  a 
burden]  Now  you  know  why  he's  mad — waiting 
for  that  ship — and  why  in  the  end  I  had  to  ask 
you  to  take  him  away  where  he'll  be  safe.  The 
mortgage — the  price  of  that  ship — is  to  be  fore 
closed.  We  have  to  move,  my  sister  and  I.  We 
can't  take  him  with  us.  She  is  to  be  married  soon. 
Perhaps  away  from  the  sight  of  the  sea  he  may— 


158       WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

HIGGINS — [Perfunctorily.]  Let's  hope  for  the 
best.  And  I  fully  appreciate  your  position.  [He 
gets  up,  smiling.]  And  thank  you  for  the  interest 
ing  story.  I'll  know  how  to  humor  him  when  he 
raves  about  treasure. 

NAT — [Somberly.']  He  is  quiet  always — too 
quiet.  He  only  walks  to  and  fro — watching 

HIGGINS — Well,  I  must  go.  You  think  it's  best 
to  take  him  to-night? 

NAT  [Persuasively.]  Yes,  Doctor.  The  neigh 
bors — they're  far  away  but — for  my  sister's  sake — 
you  understand. 

HIGGINS — I  see.  It  must  be  hard  on  her — this 
sort  of  thing — Well. — [He  goes  to  the  door,  which 
NAT  opens  for  him.]  I'll  return  presently.  [He 
starts  to  descend.] 

NAT — [Urgently.]  Don't  fail  us,  Doctor.  And 
come  right  up.  He'll  be  here.  [He  closes  the  door 
and  tiptoes  carefully  to  the  companionway.  He 
ascends  it  a  few  steps  and  remains  for  a  moment 
listening  for  some  sound  from  above.  Then  he  goes 
over  to  the  table,  turning  the  lantern  very  low,  and 
sits  down,  resting  his  elbows,  his  chin  on  his  hands, 
staring  somberly  before  him,.  The  door  in  the  rear  is 
slowly  opened.  It  creaks  slightly  and  NAT  jumps 
to  his  feet — in  a  thick  voice  of  terror.]  Who's 
there?  [The  door  swings  wide  open,  revealing  SUE 
BARTLETT.  She  ascends  into  the  room  and  shuts 
the  door  behind  her.  She  is  a  tall,  slender  woman 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       159 

of  twenty-five,  with  a  pale,  sad  face  framed  in  a  mass 
of  dark  red  hair.  This  hair  furnishes  the  only 
touch  of  color  about  her.  Her  full  lips  are  pale; 
the  blue  of  her  wistful  wide  eyes  is  fading  into  a 
twilight  gray.  Her  voice  is  low  and  melancholy. 
She  wears  a  dark  wrapper  and  slippers.] 

SUE — [Stands  and  looks  at  her  brother  accus 
ingly. ,]  It's  only  I.  What  are  you  afraid  of? 

NAT — [Averts  his  eyes  and  sinks  back  on  his 
chair  again.]  Nothing.  I  didn't  know — I  thought 
you  were  in  your  room. 

SUE — [Comes  to  the  table.]  I  was  reading. 
Then  I  heard  some  one  come  down  the  stairs  and  go 
out.  Who  was  it?  [With  sudden  terror.]  It 
wasn't— Father? 

NAT — No.  He's  up  there — watching — as  he  al 
ways  is. 

SUE — [Sitting  down — insistently.]     Who  was  it? 

NAT — [Evasively.]     A  man — I  know. 

SUE — What  man?  What  is  he?  You're  holding 
something  back.  Tell  me. 

NAT — [Raising  his  eyes  defiantly.]     A  doctor. 

SUE — [Alarmed]  Oh!  [With  quick  intuition.] 
You  brought  him  up  here — so  that  I  wouldn't 
know! 

NAT — [Doggedly.]  No.  I  took  him  up  here  to 
see  how  things  were — to  ask  him  about  Father. 

SUE — [As  if  afraid  of  the  answer  she  will  get.] 


160       WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

Is  he  one  of  them — from  the  asylum?  Oh,  Nat,  you 
haven't 

NAT — [Interrupting  her — hoarsely.]  No,  no! 
Be  still. 

SUE — That  would  be — the  last  horror. 

NAT — [Defiantly.'}  Why?  You  always  say  that. 
What  could  be  more  horrible  than  things  as  they 
are?  I  believe — it  would  be  better  for  him — away 
— where  he  couldn't  see  the  sea.  He'll  forget  his 
mad  idea  of  waiting  for  a  lost  ship  and  a  treasure 
that  never  was.  [As  if  trying  to  convince  himself 
— vehemently.]  I  believe  this! 

SUE — [Reproachfully.']  You  don't,  Nat.  You 
know  he'd  die  if  he  hadn't  the  sea  to  live  with. 

NAT — [Bitterly.']  And  you  know  old  Smith  will 
foreclose  the  mortgage.  Is  that  nothing?  We  can 
not  pay.  He  came  yesterday  and  talked  with  me. 
He  knows  the  place  is  his — to  all  purposes.  He 
talked  as  if  we  were  merely  his  tenants,  curse  him ! 
And  he  swore  he'd  foreclose  immediately  unless 

SUE—  [Eagerly.]     What? 

NAT — [In  a  hard  voice.]  Unless  we  have — 
Father — taken  away. 

SUE — [In  anguish.]  Oh!  But  why,  why?  What 
is  Father  to  him? 

NAT — The  value  of  the  property — our  home  which 
is  his,  Smith's.  The  neighbors  are  afraid.  They 
pass  by  on  the  road  at  nights  coming  back  to  their 
farms  from  the  town.  They  see  him  up  there  walk- 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       161 

ing  back  and  forth — waving  his  arms  against  the 
sky.  They're  afraid.  They  talk  of  a  complaint. 
They  say  for  his  own  good  he  must  be  taken  away. 
They  even  whisper  the  house  is  haunted.  Old  Smith 
is  afraid  of  his  property.  He  thinks  that  he  may 
set  fire  to  the  house — do  anything 

SUE  [Despairingly.]  But  you  told  him  how  fool 
ish  that  was,  didn't  you?  That  Father  is  quiet,  al 
ways  quiet. 

NAT — What's  the  use  of  telling — when  they  be 
lieve — when  they're  afraid?  [SUE  hides  her  face  in 
her  hands — a  pau^e — NAT  whispers  hoarsely:]  I've 
been  afraid  myself — at  times. 

SUE— Oh,  Nat!     Of  what? 

NAT — [Violently.]  Oh,  him  and  the  sea  he  calls 
to !  Of  the  damned  sea  he  forced  me  on  as  a  boy — 
the  sea  that  robbed  me  of  my  arm  and  made  me  the 
broken  thing  I  am ! 

SUE  [Pleadingly.]  You  can't  blame  Father — 
for  your  misfortune. 

NAT — He  took  me  from  school  and  forced  me  on 
his  ship,  didn't  he?  What  would  I  have  been  now 
but  an  ignorant  sailor  like  him  if  he  had  had  his 
way?  No.  It's  the  sea  I  should  not  blame,  that 
foiled  him  by  taking  my  arm  and  then  throwing  me 
ashore — another  one  of  his  wrecks ! 

SUE — [With  a  sob.]  You're  bitter,  Nat — and 
hard.  It  was  so  long  ago.  Why  can't  you  forget? 

NAT—  [Bitterly.]       Forget!       You     can     talk! 


162       WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

When  Tom  comes  home  from  this  voyage  you'll  be 
married  and  out  of  this  with  life  before  you — a 
captain's  wife  as  our  mother  was.  I  wish  you  joy. 

SUE — [Supplicatingly]  And  you'll  come  with 
us,  Nat — and  father,  too — and  then 

NAT — Would  you  saddle  your  young  husband 
with  a  madman  and  a  cripple?  [Fiercely ]  No, 
no,  not  I!  [Vindictively, ,]  And  not  him,  either! 
[With  sudden  meaning — deliberately.]  I've  got  to 
stay  here.  My  book  is  three-fourths  done — my  book 
that  will  set  me  free!  But  I  know,  I  feel,  as  sure 
as  I  stand  here  living  before  you,  that  I  must  finish 
it  here.  It  could  not  live  for  me  outside  of  this 
house  where  it  was  born.  [Staring  at  her  fixedly.] 
So  I  will  stay — in  spite  of  hell!  [SUE  sobs  hope 
lessly.  After  a  pause  he  continues:]  Old  Smith 
told  me  I  could  live  here  indefinitely  without  paying 
— as  caretaker — if 

SUE — [Fearfully — like  a  whispered  eclio.~\     If? 

NAT — [Staring  at  Tier — in  a  hard  voice. ]  If  I 
have  him  sent — where  he'll  no  longer  harm  himself 
— nor  others. 

SUE — [With  horrified  dread]  No — no,  Nat! 
For  our  dead  mother's  sake. 

NAT — [Struggling]  Did  I  say  I  had?  Why  do 
you  look  at  me — like  that? 

SUE — Nat!  Nat!     For  our  mother's  sake! 

NAT—  [In  terror]     Stop!     Stop!     She's  dead— 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       163 

and  at  peace.  Would  you  bring  her  tired  soul  back 
to  him  again  to  be  bruised  and  wounded? 

SUE— Nat! 

NAT — [Clutching  at  his  throat  as  though  to 
strangle  something  within  him — hoarsely.']  Sue! 
Have  mercy!  [His  sister  stares  at  him  with  dread 
foreboding.  NAT  calms  himself  with  an  effort  and 
continues  deliberately:]  Smith  said  he  would  give 
two  thousand  cash  if  I  would  sell  the  place  to  him 
— and  he  would  let  me  stay,  rent  free,  as  caretaker. 

SUE- — [Scornfully.]  Two  thousand!  Why,  over 
and  above  the  mortgage  its  worth — 

NAT — It's  not  what  it's  worth.  It's  what  one  can 
get,  cash — for  my  book — for  freedom! 

SUE — So  that's  why  he  wants  Father  sent  away, 
the  wretch !  He  must  know  the  will  Father  made — 

NAT — Gives  the  place  to  me.  Yes,  he  knows.  I 
told  him. 

SUE — [Dully.]     Ah,  how  vile  men  are ! 

NAT — [Persuasively.]  If  it  were  to  be  done — if 
it  were,  I  say — there'd  be  half  for  you  for  your 
wedding  portion.  That's  fair. 

SUE — [Horrified.]  Blood  money!  Do  you  think 
I  could  touch  it? 

NAT — [Persuasively.]  It  would  be  only  fair.  I'd 
give  it  you. 

SUE — My  God,  Nat,  are  you  trying  to  bribe  me? 

NAT — No.     It's  yours  in  all  fairness.     [With  a 


164       WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

twisted  smile.]  You  forget  I'm  heir  to  the  treas 
ure,  too,  and  can  afford  to  be  generous.  Ha-ha. 

SUE — [Alarmed.]  Nat!  You're  so  strange. 
You're  sick,  Nat.  You  couldn't  talk  this  way  if 
you  were  yourself.  Oh,  we  must  go  away  from  here 
• — you  and  father  and  I!  Let  Smith  foreclose. 
There'll  be  something  over  the  mortgage;  and  we'll 
move  to  some  little  house — by  the  sea  so  that 
father 

NAT — [Fiercely.]  Can  keep  up  his  mad  game 
with  me — whispering  dreams  in  my  ear — pointing 
out  to  sea — mocking  me  with  stuff  like  this !  [He 
takes  the  bracelet  from  his  pocket.  The  sight  of  it 
infuriates  him  and  he  hurls  it  into  a  corner,  exclaim 
ing  in  a  terrible  voice:]  No!  No!  It's  too  late 
for  dreams  now.  It's  too  late!  I've  put  them  be 
hind  me  to-night — forever! 

SUE — [Looks  at  him  and  suddenly  understands 
that  what  she  dreads  has  come  to  pass — letting  her 
head  fall  on  her  outstretched  arms  with  a  long 
moan.]  Then — you've  done  it!  You've  sold  him! 
Oh,  Nat,  you're  cursed! 

NAT — [With  a  terrified  glance  at  the  roof  above.] 
Ssshh!  What  are  you  saying?  He'll  be  better  off 
— away  from  the  sea. 

SUE — [Dully.]     You've  sold  him. 

NAT—  [Wildly.]  No!  No!  [He  takes  the  map 
from  his  pocket.]  Listen,  Sue!  For  God's  sake, 
listen  to  me!  See!  The  map  of  the  island.  [He 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       165 

spreads  it  out  on  the  table.]  And  the  treasure — 
where  the  cross  is  made.  [He  gulps  and  his  words 
pour  out  incoherently.']  I've  carried  it  about  for 
years.  Is  that  nothing?  You  don't  know  what  it 
means.  It  stands  between  me  and  my  book.  It's 
stood  between  me  and  life — driving  me  mad!  He 
taught  me  to  wait  and  hope  with  him — wait  and 
hope — day  after  day.  He  made  me  doubt  my  brain 
and  give  the  lie  to  my  eyes — when  hope  was  dead — 
when  I  knew  it  was  all  a  dream — I  couldn't  kill  it! 
[His  eyes  starting  -from  his  head.~\  God  forgive  me, 
I  still  believe!  And  that's  mad — mad,  do  you  hear? 

SUE — [Looking  at  him  with  horror.]  And  that 
is  why — you  hate  him! 

NAT — No,    I    don't [Then    in    a    sudden 

•frenzy.]  Yes !  I  do  hate  him !  He's  stolen  my 
brain!  I've  got  to  free  myself,  can't  you  see,  from 
him — and  his  madness. 

SUE — [Terrified — appealingly.]  Nat!  Don't! 
You  talk  as  if 

NAT — [With  a  wild  laugh.]  As  if  I  were  mad? 
You're  right — but  I'll  be  mad  no  more !  See !  [He 
opens  the  lantern  and  sets  fire  to  the  map  in  his 
hand.  When  he  shuts  the  lantern  again  it  flickers 
and  goes  out.  They  watch  the  paper  burn  with  fas 
cinated  eyes  as  he  talks.]  See  how  I  free  myself 
and  become  sane.  And  now  for  facts,  as  the  doctor 
said.  I  lied  to  you  about  him.  He  was  a  doctor 
from  the  asylum.  See  how  it  burns !  It  must  all  be 


166       WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

destroyed — this  poisonous  madness.  Yes,  I  lied  to 
you — see — it's  gone — the  last  speck — and  the  only 
other  map  is  the  one  Silas  Home  took  to  the  bot 
tom  of  the  sea  with  him.  [He  lets  the  ash  fall  to 
the  floor  and  crushes  it  with  his  foot.]  Gone!  I'm 
free  of  it — at  last !  [His  face  is  'very  pale,  but  he 
goes  on  calmly.]  Yes,  I  sold  him,  if  you  will — to 
save  my  soul.  They're  coming  from  the  asylum  to 

get  him [There  is  a  loud,  muffled  cry  from 

above,  which  sounds  like  "Sail-ho,"  and  a  stamping 
of  feet.  The  slide  to  the  companionway  above  is  slid 
back  with  a  bang.  A  gust  of  air  tears  down  into  the 
room.  NAT  and  SUE  have  jumped  to  their  feet  and 
stand  petrified.  '  CAPTAIN  BARTLETT  tramps  down 
the  stairs.] 

NAT — [With  a  shudder.]     God!     Did  he  hear? 

SUE — Ssshh!  [CAPTAIN  BARTLETT  comes  into  the 
room.  He  bears  a  striking  resemblance  to  his  son, 
but  his  face  is  more  stern  and  formidable,  his  form 
more  robust,  erect  and  muscular.  His  mass  of  hair 
is  pure  white,  his  bristly  mustache  the  same,  con- 
trasting  with  the  weather-beaten  leather  color  of  his 
furrowed  face.  Bushy  gray  brows  overhang  the 
obsessed  glare  of  his  fierce  dark  eyes.  He  wears  a 
heavy,  double-breasted  blue  coat,  pants  of  the  same 
material,  and  rubber  boots  turned  down  from  the 
knee.] 

BARTI/ETT — [In  a  state  of  mad  exultation  strides 
toward  his  son  and  points  an  accusing  finger  at  him. 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       167 

NAT  shrinks  backward  a  step.]  Bin  thinkin'  me 
mad,  did  ye?  Thinkin'  it  for  the  past  three  years, 
ye  bin — ever  since  them  fools  on  the  Slocum  tattled 
their  damn  lie  o'  the  Mary  Allen  bein'  a  wreck. 

NAT — [Swallowing  hard — chokingly.]  No — 
Father-— I— 

BARTLETT — Don't  lie,  ye  whelp!  You  that  I'd 
made  my  heir — aimin'  to  git  me  out  o'  the  way! 
Aimin'  to  put  me  behind  the  bars  o'  the  jail  for  mad 
folk! 

SUE — Father — no ! 

BARTLETT — [Waving  his  hand  for  her  to  be 
silent.]  Not  you,  girl,  not  you.  You're  your 
mother. 

NAT — [Very  pale.]  Father — do  you  think — 
j 

BARTLETT — [Fiercely.]  A  lie  in  your  eyes!  I 
bin  a-readin'  'em.  My  curse  on  you ! 

SUE — Father !     Don't ! 

BARTLETT — Leave  me  be,  girl.  He  believed, 
didn't  he?  And  ain't  he  turned  traitor — mockin' 
at  me  and  sayin'  it's  all  a  lie — mockin'  at  himself, 
too,  for  bein'  a  fool  to  believe  in  dreams,  as  he 
calls  'em. 

NAT — [Placatingly.]  You're  wrong,  Father.  I 
do  believe. 

BARTLETT — [Triumphantly.]  Aye,  now  ye  do! 
Who  wouldn't  credit  their  own  eyes? 

NAT — [Mystified.  ]     Eyes  ? 


168       WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

BARTLETT — Have  ye  not  seen  her,  then?  Did 
ye  not  hear  me  hail? 

NAT — [Confusedly.]  Hail?  I  heard  a  shout. 
But — hail  what? — seen  what? 

BARTLETT — [Grimly.]  Aye,  now's  your  punish 
ment,  Judas.  [Explosively.]  The  Mary  Allen,  ye 
blind  fool,  come  back  from  the  Southern  Seas — 
come  back  as  I  swore  she  must ! 

SUE — [Trying  to  soothe  him.]  Father!  Be 
quiet.  It's  nothing. 

BARTLETT — [Not  heeding  her — his  eyes  fixed  hyp 
notically  on  his  sons.]  Turned  the  pint  a  half -hour 
back — the  Mary  Allen — loaded  with  gold  as  I  swore 
she  would  be — carryin'  her  lowers — not  a  reef  in 
'em — makin'  port,  boy,  as  I  swore  she  must — too 
late  for  traitors,  boy,  too  late! — droppin'  her 
anchor  just  when  I  hailed  her. 

NAT — [A  haunted,  fascinated  look  in  his  eyes, 
which  are  fixed  immovably  on  his  father's.]  TJie 
Mary  Allen!  But  how  do  you  know? 

BARTLETT — Not  know  my  own  ship !  'Tis  you  're 
mad! 

NAT — But  at  night — some  other  schooner 

BARTLETT — No  other,  I  say !  The  Mary  Allen — 
clear  in  the  moonlight.  And  heed  this :  D'you  call 
to  mind  the  signal  I  gave  to  Silas  Home  if  he  made 
this  port  o'  a  night? 

NAT — [Slowly.]  A  red  and  a  green  light  at  the 
mainmast-head. 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       169 

BARTLETT — [Triumphantly.]  Then  look  out  if 
ye  dare!  [He  goes  to  the  porthole,  left  forward.] 
Ye  can  see  it  plain  from  here.  [Commandingly '.] 
Will  ye  believe  your  eyes  ?  Look — and  then  call  me 
mad!  [NAT  peers  through  the  porthole  and  starts 
back,  a  dumbfounded  expression  on  his  face.] 

NAT — [Slowly. ~\  A  red  and  a  green  at  the  main 
mast-head.  Yes — clear  as  day. 

SUE — [With  a-  worried  look  at  him.]  Let  me  see. 
[She  goes  to  the  porthole.] 

BARTLETT — [To  his  son  with  fierce  satisfaction.] 
Aye,  ye  see  now  clear  enough — too  late  for  you. 
[NAT  stares  at  him,  spellbound.]  And  from  above 
I  saw  Home  and  Gates  and  Jimmy  Kanaka  plain  on 
the  deck  in  the  moonlight  lookin'  up  at  me.  Come! 
[He  strides  to  the  companionway,  -followed  by  NAT. 
The  two  of  them  ascend.  SUE  turns  from  the  port 
hole,  an  expression  of  frightened  bewilderment  on 
her  face.  She  shakes  her  head  sadly.  A  loud 
"Mary  Allen,  ahoy!"  comes  from  above  in  BART- 
LETT'S  voice,  followed  like  an  echo  by  the  same  hail 
from  NAT.  SUE  covers  her  face  with  her  hands, 
shuddering.  NAT  comes  down  the  companionway, 
his  eyes  wild  and  exulting. ] 

SUE — [Brokenly.]  He's  bad  to-night,  Nat. 
You're  right  to  humor  him.  It's  the  best  thing. 

NAT — [Savagely.]  Humor  him?  What  in  hell 
do  you  mean  ? 


170       WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

SUE — [Pointing  to  the  portliole.~\  There's  noth 
ing  there,  Nat.  There's  not  a  ship  in  harbor. 

NAT — You're  a  fool — or  blind !  The  Mary  Allen's 
there  in  plain  sight  of  any  one,  with  the  red  and 
the  green  signal  lights.  Those  fools  lied  about  her! 
being  wrecked.  And  I've  been  a  fool,  too. 

SUE — But,  Nat,  there's  nothing.  [She  goes  over 
to  the  porthole  again.]  Not  a  ship.  See. 

NAT — I  saw,  I  tell  you!  From  above  it's  all 
plain.  [He  turns  from  her  and  goes  back  to  his 
seat  by  the  table.  SUE  follows  him,  pleading  fright- 
enedly.] 

SUE — Nat!  You  mustn't  let  this You're 

all  excited  and  trembling,  Nat.  [She  puts  a  sooth 
ing  hand  on  his  forehead.] 

NAT — [Pushing  her  away  from  him  roughly. ] 
You  blind  fool!  [Bartlett  comes  down  the  steps  of 
the  companionway.  His  face  is  transfigured  with\ 
the  ecstasy  of  a  dream  come  true.~\ 

BARTLETT — They've  lowered  a  boat — the  three — 
Home  and  Gates  and  Jimmy  Kanaka.  They're 
a-rowin'  ashore.  I  heard  the  oars  in  the  locks. 
Listen!  [A  pause.'] 

NAT— [Excitedly.]     I  hear! 

SUE — [Who  has  taken  the  chair  by  her  brother — 
in  a  warning  whisper.]  It's  the  wind  and  sea  you 
hear,  Nat.  Please ! 

BARTLETT — [Suddenly.]  Hark!  They've  landed. 
They're  back  on  earth  again  as  I  swore  they'd  come 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       171 

back.  They'll  be  a-comin'  up  the  path  now.  [He 
stands  in  an  attitude  of  rigid  attention.  NAT 
strains  -forward  in  his  chair.  The  sound  of  the  wind 
and  sea  suddenly  ceases  and  there  is  a  heavy  silence. 
A  dense  green  glow  floods  slowly  in  rhythmic  waves 
like  a  liquid  into  the  room — as  of  great  depths  of 
the  sea  faintly  penetrated  by  light.'} 

NAT — [Catching  at  his  sister's  hand — chokingly.} 
See  how  the  light  changes  !  Green  and  gold !  [He 
shivers.}  Deep  under  the  sea!  I've  been  drowned 
for  years!  [Hysterically.}  Save  me!  Save  me! 

SUE — [Patting  his  hand  comfortingly.}  Only 
the  moonlight,  Nat.  It  hasn't  changed.  Be  quiet, 
dear,  it's  nothing.  [The  green  light  grows  deeper 
and  deeper.} 

BARTLETT — [In  a  crooning,  monotonous  tone.} 
They  move  slowly — slowly.  They're  heavy,  I  know, 
heavy — the  two  chests.  Hark!  They're  below  at 
the  door.  You  hear? 

NAT — [Starting  to  his  feet.]  I  hear!  I  left  the 
door  open. 

BARTLETT — For  them? 

NAT — For  them. 

SUE — [Shuddering.'}  Ssshh!  [The  sound  of  a 
door  being  heavily  slammed  is  heard  from  way  down 
in  the  house. ,} 

NAT — [To  his  sister — excitedly. ~\  There  1  You 
hear? 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

SUE — A  shutter  in  the  wind. 

NAT — There  is  no  wind. 

BARTLETT — Up  they  come !  Up,  bullies !  They're 
heavy — heavy!  [The  paddling  of  bare  feet  sounds 
from  the  floor  below — then  comes  up  the  stairs."] 

NAT — You  hear  them  now? 

SUE — Only  the  rats  running  about.  It's  nothing, 
Nat. 

BARTLETT — [Rushing  to  the  door  and  throwing  it 
open.]  Come  in,  lads,  come  in! — and  welcome 
home!  [The  form$  of  SILAS  HORNE,  GATES,  and 
JIMMY  KANAKA  rise  noiselessly  into  the  room  from 
the  stairs.  The  last  two  carry  heavy  mlaid  chests. 
HORNE  is  a  parrot-nosed,  angular  old  man  dressed 
in  gray  cotton  trousers  and  a  singlet  torn  open 
across  his  hairy  chest.  JIMMY  is  a  tally  sinewy, 
bronzed  young  Kanaka.  He  wears  only  a  breech 
cloth.  GATES  is  squat  and  stout  and  is  dressed  in 
dungaree  pants  and  a  shredded  white  sailor's  blouse, 
stained  with  iron  rust.  All  are  in  their  bare  feet. 
Water  drips  from  their  soaked  and  rotten  clothes. 
Their  hair  is  matted,  intertwined  with  slimy  strands 
of  seaweed.  Their  eyes,  as  they  glide  silently  mto 
the  room,  stare  frightfully  wide  at  nothing.  Their 
flesh  in  the  green  light  has  the  suggestion  of  de 
composition.  Their  bodies  sway  limply,  nerve 
lessly,  rhythmically  as  if  to  the  pulse  of  long  swells 
of  the  deep  seaJ\ 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       173 

NAT — [Making  a  step  toward  them.']  See! 
[Frenziedly]  Welcome  home,  boys! 

SUE — [Grabbing  Ms  arm.]  Sit  down,  Nat.  It's 
nothing.  There's  no  one  there.  Father — sit  down ! 

BARTLETT — [Grinning  at  the  three  and  putting 
his  finger  to  his  lips.']  Not  here,  boys,  not  here — 
not  before  him.  [He  points  to  his  son.]  He  has 
no  right,  now.  Come.  The  treasure  is  ours  only. 
We'll  go  away  with  it  together.  Come.  [He  goes 
to  the  companionway.  The  three  follow.  At  the 
foot  of  it  HORNE  puts  a  swaying  hand  on  his  shoul 
der  and  with  the  other  holds  out  a  piece  of  paper 
to  him.  BARTLETT  takes  it  and  chuckles  exult 
antly.']  That's  right— for  him— that's  right!  [He 
ascends.  The  figures  sway  up  after  him.~] 

NAT — [Frenziedly.]  Wait!  [He  struggles  to 
ward  the  companionway.'] 

SUE — [Trying  to  hold  him  back.]  Nat — don't! 
Father — come  back ! 

NAT — Father!  [He  flings  her  away  from  him 
and  rushes  up  the  companionway.  He  pounds 
against  the  slide,  which  seems  to  have  been  shut 
down  on  him] 

SUE — [Hysterically — runs  wildly  to  the  door  in 
rear]  Help!  Help!  [As  she  gets  to  the  door 
DOCTOR  HIGGINS  appears,  hurrying  up  the  stairs.] 

HIGGINS — [Excitedly.]  Just  a  moment,  Miss. 
What's  the  matter? 

SUE — [With  a  gasp]     My  father — up  there! 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

HIGGINS — I  can't  see — where' s  my  flash?  Ah. 
[He  flashes  it  on  her  terror-stricken  face,  then 
quickly  around  the  room.  The  green  glow  disap 
pears.  The  "wind  and  sea  are  heard  again.  Clear 
moonlight  floods  through  the  portholes.  HIGGINS 
springs  to  the  companionway.  NAT  is  still  pound 
ing.']  Here,  Bartlett.  Let  me  try. 

NAT — [Coming  down — looking  dully  at  the  doc 
tor.']  They've  locked  it.  I  can't  get  up. 

HIGGINS — [Looks  up — in  an  astonished  voice.] 
What's  the  matter,  Bartlett?  It's  all  open.  [He 
starts  to  ascend.] 

NAT — [In  a  voice  of  warning.]  Look  out,  man! 
Look  out  for  them ! 

HIGGINS — [Calls  down  -from  above.]  Them? 
Who?  There's  no  one  here.  [Suddenly — in  alarm.] 
Come  up!  Lend  a  hand  here!  He's  fainted! 
[NAT  goes  up  slowly.  SUE  goes  over  and  lights 
the  lantern,  then  hurries  bade  to  the  foot  of  the 
companionway  with  it.  There  is  a  scuffling  noise 
from  above.  They  reappear,  carrying  CAPTAIN 
BARTLETT'S  body.] 

HIGGINS — Easy  now!  [They  lay  him  on  the 
couch  in  rear.  SUE  sets  the  lantern  down  by  the 
couch.  HIGGINS  bends  and  listens  for  a  heart-beat. 
Then  he  rises,  shaking  his  head.]  I'm  sorry 

SUE—  [Dully.]     Dead? 

HIGGINS — [Nodding.]     Heart   failure,   I   should 


WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE       175 

judge.  [With  an  attempt  at  consolation.]  Per 
haps  it's  better  so,  if— 

NAT — [As  if  in  a  trance. ~\  There  was  something 
Home  handed  him.  Did  you  see? 

SUE — [Wringing  her  hands.]  Oh,  Nat,  be  still! 
He's  dead.  [To  HIGGINS  with  pitiful  appeal.] 
Please  go — go 

HIGGINS — There's  nothing  I  can  do? 

SUE — Go — please [HIGGINS  bows  stiffly  and 

goes  out.  NAT  moves  slowly  to  his  father's  body, 
as  if  attracted  by  some  irresistible  fascination.] 

NAT — Didn't  you  see?  Home  handed  him  some 
thing. 

SUE — [Sobbing.]  Nat!  Nat!  Come  away!  Don't 
touch  him,  Nat!  Come  away.  [But  her  brother 
does  not  heed  her.  His  gaze  is  fixed  on  his  father's 
right  hand,  which  hangs  downward  over  the  side  of 
the  couch.  He  pounces  on  it  and  forcing  the 
clenched  fingers  open  with  a  great  effort,  secures  a 
crumpled  ball  of  paper.] 

NAT — [Flourishing  it  above  his  head  with  a  shout 
of  triumph.]  See!  [He  bends  down  and  spreads 
it  out  in  the  light  of  the  lantern.  The  map  of  the 
island!  Look!  It  isn't  lost  for  me  after  all! 
There's  still  a  chance — my  chance!  [With  mad, 
solemn  decision.]  When  the  house  is  sold  I'll  go — 
and  I'll  find  it!  Look!  It's  written  here  in  his 
hand  writing:  "The  treasure  is  buried  where  the 
cross  is  made." 


176       WHERE  THE  CROSS  IS  MADE 

SUE — [Covering  her  face  with  her  hands — 
brokenly.]  Oh,  God!  Come  away,  Nat!  Come 
away ! 

[The  Curtain  Falls] 


THE  ROPE 

A  Play  In  One  Act 


CHARACTERS 

ABRAHAM  BENTLEY 

ANNIE,  his  daughter 

PAT  SWEENEY,  her  husband 

MARY,  their  child 

LUKE  BENTLEY,  Abe's  son  by  a  second  marriage 


THE  ROPE 


SCENE — The  interior  of  an  old  barn  situated  on 
top  of  a  high  headland  of  the  seacoast.  In 
the  rear,  to  the  left,  a  stall  in  which  lumber  is 
stacked  up.  To  the  right  of  it,  an  open  double 
doorway  looking  out  over  the  ocean.  Outside 
the  doorway,  the  faint  trace  of  what  was  once 
a  road  leading  to  the  barn.  Beyond  the  road, 
the  edge  of  a  cliff  which  rues  sheer  -from  the 
sea  below.  On  the  right  of  -the  doorway,  three 
stalls  with  mangers  and  hay-ricks.  The  first 
of  these  is  used  as  a  woodbin  and  is  half  full  of 
piled-up  cordwood.  Near  this  bin,  a  chopping 
block  with  an  ax  driven  into  the  top  of  it. 

The  left  section  of  the  barn  contains  the  hay 
loft,  which  extends  at  a  height  of  about  twelve 
feet  from  the  floor  as  far  to  the  right  as  the 
middle  of  the  doorway.  The  loft  is  bare  ex 
cept  -for  a  few  scattered  mounds  of  dank-look 
ing  hay.  From  the  edge  of  the  loft,  half  way 
from  the  door,  a  rope  about  five  feet  long  with 
an  open  running  noose  at  the  end  is  hanging. 
179 


180  THE  ROPE 

A  rusty  plow  and  various  other  farming  imple 
ments,  all  giving  evidence  of  long  disuse,  are 
lying  on  the  -floor  near  the  left  wall.  Farther 
forward  an  old  cane-bottomed  chair  is  set  back 
against  the  wall. 

In  front  of  the  stalls  on  the  right  stands  a 
long,  roughly  constructed  carpenter9 s  table,  evi 
dently  home-made.  Saws,  a  lathe,  a  hammer, 
chisel,  a  keg  containing  nails  and  other  tools 
of  the  carpentry  trade  are  on  the  table.  Two 
benches  are  placed,  one  in  -front,  one  ta  the 
left  of  it. 

The  right  side  of  the  barn  is  a  bare  wall. 

It  is  between  six  and  half -past  in  the  evening 
of  a  day  in  early  spring.  At  the  rising  of  the 
curtain  some  trailing  clouds  near  the  horizon, 
seen  through  the  open  doorway,  are  faintly 
tmged  with  gold  by  the  first  glow  of  the  sunset. 
As  the  action  progresses  this  reflected  light 
gradually  becomes  brighter,  and  then  slowly 
fades  into  a  smoky  crimson.  The  sea  is  a 
dark  slate  color.  From  the  rocks  below  the 
headland  sounds  the  muffled  monotone  of  break 
ing  waves. 

As  the  curtain  rises  MARY  is  discovered 
squatting  cross-legged  on  the  floor,  her  back 
propped  against  the  right  side  of  the  doorway, 
her  face  in  profile.  She  is  a  skinny,  over-grown 


THE  ROPE  181 

girl  of  ten  with  thin,  carroty  hair  worn  in  a 
pig-tail.  She  wears  a  shabby  gingham  dress. 
Her  face  is  stupidly  expressionless.  Her  hands 
flutter  about  aimlessly  in  relaxed,  flabby  ges 
tures. 

She  is  staring  fixedly  at  a  rag  doll  which  she 
has  propped  up  against  the  doorway  opposite 
her.  She  hums  shrilly  to  herself. 

At  a  sudden  noise  from  outside  she  jumps  to 
her  feet,  peeks  out,  and  quickly  snatches  up 
the  doll,  which  she  hugs  fiercely  to  her  breast. 
Then,  after  a  second's  fearful  hesitation,  she 
runs  to  the  carpenter's  table  and  crawls  under 
it. 

As  she  does  so  ABRAHAM  BENTLEY  appears 
in  the  doorway  and  stands,  blinking  into  the 
shadowy  barn.  He  is  a  tall,  lean  stoop-shoul 
dered  old  man  of  sixty-five.  His  thin  legs,  twist 
ed  by  rheumatism;  totter  feebly  under  him  as  he 
shuffles  slowly  along  by  the  aid  of  a  thick  cane. 
His  face  is  gaunt,  chalky-white,  furrowed  with 
wrinkles,  surmounted  by  a  shiny  bald  scalp 
fringed  with  scanty  wisps  of  white  hair.  His 
eyes  peer  weakly  from  beneath  bushy,  black 
brows.  His  mouth  is  a  sunken  line  drawn  in 
under  his  large,  beak-like  nose.  A  two  weeks9 
growth  of  stubby  patches  of  beard  covers  his 
jaws  and  chin.  He  has  on  a  threadbare  brown 
overcoat  but  wears  no  hat. 


182  THE  ROPE 

BENTLEY — [Comes  slowly  into  the  barn,  peering 
around  him  suspiciously.  As  he  reaches  the  table 
and  leans  one  hand  on  it  for  support,  MARY  darts 
from  underneath  and  dashes  out  through  the  door 
way.  BENTLEY  is  startled;  then  shakes  his  cane 
after  her.~\  Out  o'  my  sight,  you  Papist  brat! 
Spawn  o'  Satan!  Spyin'  on  me!  They  set  her  to 
it.  Spyin'  to  watch  me!  [He  limps  to  the  door 
and  looks  out  cautiously.  Satisfied,  he  turns  back 
into  the  barn.]  Spyin'  to  see — what  they'll  never 
know.  [He  stands  staring  up  at  the  rope  and 
taps  it  testingly  several  times  with  his  stick,  talking 
to  himself  as  he  does  so.]  It's  tied  strong — strong 

as     death [He    cackles    with     satisfaction.] 

They'll  see,  then!  They'll  see!  [He  laboriously 
creeps  over  to  the  bench  and  sits  down  wearily.  He 
looks  toward  the  sea  and  his  voice  quavers  in  a  dole 
ful  chant:]  "Woe  unto  us!  for  the  day  goeth  away, 
for  the  shadows  of  the  evening  are  stretched  out." 
[He  mumbles  to  himself  for  a  moment — then  speaks 
clearly.]  Spyin'  on  me !  Spawn  o'  the  Pit !  [He 
renews  his  chant.]  "They  hunt  our  steps  that  we 
cannot  go  in  our  streets:  our  end  is  near,  our  days 
are  fulfilled;  for  our  end  is  come." 

[As  he  finishes  ANNIE  enters.  She  is  a  thin, 
slovenly,  worn-out  looking  woman  of  about  forty 
with  a  drawn,  pasty  face.  Her  habitual  expression 
is  one  of  a  dulled  irritation.  She  talks  m  a  high- 


THE  ROPE  183 

pitched,  sing-song  whine.  She  wears  a  faded  ging 
ham  dress  and  a  torn  sunbonnet.] 

ANNIE — [Comes  over  to  her  father  but  warily 
keeps  out  of  range  of  his  stick.]  Paw !  [He  doesn't 
answer  or  appear  to  see  her.]  Paw!  You  ain't 
fergittin'  what  the  doctor  told  you  when  he  was 
here  last,  be  you?  He  said  you  was  to  keep  still 
and  not  go  a-walkin'  round.  Come  on  back  to  the 
house,  Paw.  It's  gittin'  near  supper  time  and  you 
got  to  take  your  medecine  b'fore  it,  like  he  says. 

BENTLEY — [His  eyes  fixed  in  front  of  him.] 
"The  punishment  of  thine  iniquity  is  accomplished, 

0  daughter  of  Zion:  he  will  visit  thine  iniquity,  O 
daughter  of  Edom;  he  will  discover  thy  sins." 

ANNIE — [Waiting  resignedly  until  he  has  fin 
ished — wearily.]  You  better  take  watch  on  your 
health,  Paw,  and  not  be  sneakin'  up  to  this  barn 
no  more.  Lord  sakes,  soon  's  ever  my  back  is  turned 
you  goes  sneakin'  off  agen.  It's  enough  to  drive  a 
body  outa  their  right  mind. 

BENTLEY — "Behold,  every  one  that  useth  prov 
erbs  shall  use  this  proverb  against  thee,  saying,  As 
is  the  mother,  so  is  her  daughter!"  [He  cackles  to 
himself.]  So  is  her  daughter! 

ANNIE — [Her  face  flushing  with  anger.]     And  if 

1  am,  I'm  glad  I  take  after  her  and  not  you,  y'old 
wizard!      [Scornfully.]      A  fine   one  you  be  to   be 
shoutin'  Scripture  in  a  body's  ears  all  the  live-long 
day — you  that  druv  Maw  to  her  death  with  your 


184  THE  ROPE 

naggin',  and  pincnin',  and  miser  stinginess.  If  you've 
a  mind  to  pray,  it's  down  in  the  medder  you  ought  to 
go,  and  kneel  down  by  her  grave,  and  ask  God  to 
forgive  you  for  the  meanness  you  done  to  her  all  her 
life. 

BENTLEY — [Mumbling.]  "As  is  the  mother,  so 
is  her  daughter." 

ANNIE — [Enraged  by  the  repetition  of  this  quo 
tation.]  You  quotin'  Scripture!  Why,  Maw  wasn't 
cold  in  the  earth  b'fore  you  was  down  in  the  port 
courtin'  agen — courtin'  that  harlot  that  was  the 
talk  o'  the  whole  town!  And  then  you  disgraces 
yourself  and  me  by  marryin'  her — her — and  bringin' 
her  back  home  with  you;  and  me  still  goin'  every 
day  to  put  flowers  on  Maw's  grave  that  you'd  fer- 
gotten.  [She  glares  at  him  vindictively,  pausing 
for  breath.]  And  between  you  you'd  have  druv  me 
into  the  grave  like  you  done  Maw  if  I  hadn't  mar 
ried  Pat  Sweeney  so's  I  could  git  away  and  live  in 
peace.  Then  you  took  on  so  high  and  mighty  'cause 
he  was  a  Cath'lic — you  gittin'  religion  all  of  a  mo 
ment  just  for  spite  on  me  'cause  I'd  left — and 
b'cause  she  egged  you  on  against  me;  you  sayin'  it 
was  a  sin  to  marry  a  Papist,  after  not  bein'  at 
Sunday  meetin'  yourself  for  more'n  twenty  years! 

BENTLEY — [Loudly.]  "He  will  visit  thin  iniq 
uity " 

ANNIE — [Interrupting.]  And  the  carryin's-on 
you  had  the  six  years  at  home  after  I'd  left  you — 


THE  ROPE  185 

the  shame  of  the  whole  county !  Your  wife,  indeed, 
with  a  child  she  claimed  was  your'n,  and  her  goin' 
with  this  farmer  and  that,  and  even  men  off  the 
ships  in  the  port,  and  you  blind  to  it!  And  then 
when  she  got  sick  of  you  and  ran  away — only  to 
meet  her  end  at  the  hands  of  God  a  year  after — 
she  leaves  you  alone  with  that — your  son,  Luke,  she 
called  him — and  him  only  five  years  old! 

BENTLEY —  [Babbling.  ]     Luke  ?     Luke  ? 

ANNIE — [Tauntingly.]  Yes,  Luke!  "As  is  the 
mother,  so  is  her  son" — that's  what  you  ought  to 
preach  'stead  of  puttin'  curses  on  me.  You  was 
glad  enough  to  git  me  back  home  agen,  and  Pat  with 
me,  to  tend  the  place,  and  help  bring  up  that  brat 
of  hers.  [Jealously.]  You  was  fond  enough  of 
him  all  them  years — and  how  did  he  pay  you  back? 
Stole  your  money  and  ran  off  and  left  you  just 
when  he  was  sixteen  and  old  enough  to  help.  Told 
you  to  your  face  he'd  stolen  and  was  leavin'.  He 
only  laughed  when  you  was  took  crazy  and  cursed 
him;  and  he  only  laughed  harder  when  you  hung 
up  that  silly  rope  there  [She  points.]  and  told 
him  to  hang  himself  on  it  when  he  ever  came  home 
agen. 

BENTLEY — [Mumbling.]  You'll  see,  then.  You'll 
see! 

ANNIE — [Wearily — her  face  becoming  dull  and 
emotionless  again.]  I  s'pose  I'm  a  bigger  fool  than 
you  be  to  argy  with  a  half-witted  body.  But  I 


186  THE  ROPE 

tell  you  agen  that  Luke  of  yours  ain't  comin'  back ; 
and  if  he  does  he  ain't  the  kind  to  hang  himself, 
more's  the  pity.  He's  like  her.  He'd  hang  you 
more  likely  if  he  s'pected  you  had  any  money.  So 
you  might  's  well  take  down  that  ugly  rope  you've 
had  tied  there  since  he  run  off.  He's  probably  dead 
anyway  by  this, 

BENTLEY — [Frightened.]     No !     No ! 

ANNIE — Them  as  bad  as  him  comes  to  a  sudden 
end.  [Irritably.]  Land  sakes,  Paw,  here  I  am 
argyin'  with  your  lunatic  notions  and  the  supper 
not  ready.  Come  on  and  git  your  medicine.  You 
can  see  no  one  ain't  touched  your  old  rope.  Come 
on !  You  can  sit  'n'  read  your  Bible.  [He  makes  no 
movement.  She  comes  closer  to  him  and  peers  into 
his  face — uncertainly.]  Don't  you  hear  me?  I  do 
hope  you  ain't  off  in  one  of  your  fits  when  you  don't 
know  nobody.  D'you  know  who's  talkin'?  This 
is  Annie — your  Annie,  Paw. 

BENTLEY — [Bursting  into  senile  rage.]  None  o* 
mine !  Spawn  o'  the  Pit !  [  With  a  quick  movement 
lie  hits  her  viciously  over  the  arm  with  his  stick. 
She  gives  a  cry  of  pain  and  backs  away  from  him, 
holding  her  arm.] 

ANNIE — [Weeping  angrily.]  That's  what  I  git 
for  tryin'  to  be  kind  to  you,  you  ugly  old  devil! 
[The  sound  of  a  man's  footsteps  is  heard  from  out 
side,  and  SWEENEY  enters.  He  is  a  stocky,  muscu 
lar,  sandy-haired  Irishman  dressed  in  patched  cordw- 


THE  ROPE  187 

roy  trousers  shoved  down  into  high  laced  boots,  and 
a  blue  flannel  shirt.  The  bony  face  of  his  bullet 
head  has  a  pressed-in  appearance  except  for  his 
heavy  jaw,  which  sticks  out  pugnaciously.  There 
is  an  expression  of  mean  cunning  and  cupidity  about 
his  mouth  and  his  small,  round,  blue  eyes.  He  has 
evidently  been  drinking  and  his  face  is  flushed  and 
set  in  an  angry  scowl.~\ 

SWEENEY — Have  ye  no  supper  at  all  made,  ye 
lazy  slut?  [Seeing  that  she  has  been  crying, ,] 
What're  you  blubberin'  about? 

ANNIE — It's  all  his  fault.  I  was  tryin'  to  git  him 
home  but  he's  that  set  I  couldn't  budge  him;  and 
he  hit  me  on  the  arm  with  his  cane  when  I  went  near 
him. 

SWEENEY — He  did,  did  he?  I'll  soon  learn  him 
better.  [He  advances  toward  BENTLEY  threaten 
ingly.'} 

ANNIE — [Grasping  his  arm.~\  Don't  touch  him, 
Pat.  He's  in  one  of  his  fits  and  you  might  kill  him. 

SWEENEY — An'  good  riddance ! 

BENTLEY — [Hissing.'}  Papist!  [Chants.~\  "Pour 
out  thy  fury  upon  the  heathen  that  know  thee  not, 
and  upon  the  families  that  call  not  on  thy  name :  for 
they  have  eaten  up  Jacob,  and  devoured  him,  and 
consumed  him,  and  made  his  habitation  desolate." 

SWEENEY — [Instinctively  crosses  himself — then 
scornfully.']  Spit  curses  on  me  till  ye  choke.  It's 
not  likely  the  Lord  God'll  be  listenin*  to  a  wicked 


188  THE  ROPE 

auld  sinner  the  like  of  you.  [To  ANNIE.]  What's 
got  into  him  to  be  roamin'  up  here?  When  I  left 
for  the  town  he  looked  too  weak  to  lift  a  foot. 

ANNIE — Oh,  it's  the  same  crazy  notion  he's  had 
ever  since  Luke  left.  He  wanted  to  make  sure  the 
rope  was  still  here. 

BENTLEY — [Pointing  to  the  rope  with  his  stick.] 
He-he !  Luke'll  come  back.  Then  you'll  see.  You'll 
see! 

SWEENEY — [Nervously.]  Stop  that  mad  cacklin' 
for  the  love  of  heaven!  [With  a  forced  laugh.] 
It's  great  laughter  I  should  be  havin'  at  you,  mad 
as  you  are,  for  thinkin'  that  thief  of  a  son  of  yours 
would  come  back  to  hang  himself  on  account  of  your 
curses.  It's  five  years  he's  been  gone,  and  not  a 
sight  of  him ;  an'  you.  cursin'  an'  callin'  down  the 
wrath  o'  God  on  him  by  day  an'  by  night.  That 
shows  you  what  God  thinks  of  your  curses — an' 
Him  deaf  to  you! 

ANNIE — It's  no  use  talkin'  to  him,  Pat. 

SWEENEY — I've  small  doubt  but  that  Luke  is  hung 
long  since — by  the  police.  He's  come  to  no  good 
end,  that  lad.  [His  eyes  on  the  rope.]  I'll  be 
pullin'  that  thing  down,  so  I  will ;  an'  the  auld  loon'll 
stay  in  the  house,  where  he  belongs,  then,  maybe. 
[He  reaches  up  for  the  rope  as  if  to  try  and  yank 
it  down.  BENTLEY  waves  his  stick  frantically  in  the 
air,  and  groans  with  rage.] 

ANNIE — [Frightened.]     Leave     it     alone,     Pat. 


THE  ROPE  189 

Look  at  him.  He's  liable  to  hurt  himself.  Leave 
his  rope  be.  It  don't  do  no  harm. 

SWEENEY — [Reluctantly  moves  away.]  It  looks 
ugly  hangin'  there  open  like  a  mouth.  [The  old 
man  sinks  back  into  a  relieved  immobility.  SWEENEY 
speaks  to  his  wife  in  a  low  tone.~\  Where's  the 
child?  Get  her  to  take  him  out  o'  this.  I  want 
a  word  with  you  he'll  not  be  hearin'.  [She  goes  to 
the  door  and  calls  out:]  Ma-ry!  Ma-ry!  [A 
"faint,  answering  cry  is  heard  and  a  moment  later 
MARY  rushes  breathlessly  into  the  barn.  SWEENEY 
grabs  her  roughly  by  the  arm.  She  shrinks  away, 
looking  at  him  with  terrified  eyes.]  You're  to  take 
your  grandfather  back  to  the  house — an'  see  to  it 
he  stays  there. 

ANNIE — And  give  him  his  medicine. 

SWEENEY — [As  the  child  continues  to  stare  at  him 
silently  with  eyes  stupid  from  fear,  he  shakes  her 
impatiently]  D'you  hear  me,  now?  [To  his 
wife]  It's  soft-minded  she  is,  like  I've  always  told 
you,  an'  stupid;  and  you're  not  too  firm  in  the 
head  yourself  at  times,  God  help  you!  An'  look  at 
him!  It's  the  curse  is  in  the  wits  of  your  family, 
not  mine. 

ANNIE — You've  been  drinkin'  in  town  or  you 
wouldn't  talk  that  way. 

MARY — [Whining]     Maw!     I'm  skeered! 

SWEENEY — [Lets  go  of  her  arm  and  approaches 
BENTLEY.]  Get  up  out  o'  this,  ye  auld  loon,  an' 


190  THE  ROPE 

go  with  Mary.  She'll  take  you  to  the  house. 
[BENTLEY  tries  to  hit  him  with  the  cane.~\  Oho,  ye 
would,  would  ye?  [He  wrests  the  cane  from  the  old 
man's  hands.]  Bad  cess  to  ye,  you're  the  treach- 
'rous  one!  Get  up,  now!  [He  jerks  the  old  man 
to  his  feet.]  Here,  Mary,  take  his  hand.  Quick 
now!  [She  does  so  tremblingly]  Lead  him  to  the 
house. 

ANNIE — Go  on,  Paw!  I'll  come  and  git  your 
supper  in  a  minute. 

BENTLEY — [Stands  stubbornly  and  begins  to  in 
tone.]  "O  Lord,  thou  hast  seen  my  wrong;  judge 
thou  my  cause.  Thou  hast  seen  all  their  vengeance 
and  all  their  imaginations  against  me " 

SWEENEY — [Pushing  him  toward  the  door. 
BENTLEY  tries  to  resist.  MARY  pulls  at  his  hand  in 
a  sudden  fit  of  impish  glee,  and  laughs  shrilly]  Get 
on  now  an'  stop  your  cursin'. 

BENTLEY — "Render  unto  them  a  recompense,  O 
Lord,  according  to  the  work  of  their  hands." 

SWEENEY — Shut  your  loud  quackin'!  Here's 
your  cane.  [He  gives  it  to  the  old  man  as  they 
come  to  the  doorway  and  quickly  steps  back  out  of 
reach]  An'  mind  you  don't  touch  the  child  with  it 
or  I'll  beat  you  to  a  jelly,  old  as  ye  are. 

BENTLEY — [Resisting  MARY'S  efforts  to  pull  him 
out,  stands  shaking  his  stick  at  SWEENEY  and  his 
wife]  "Give  them  sorrow  of  heart,  thy  curse  unto 


THE  ROPE  191 

them.  Persecute  and  destroy  them  in  anger  from 
under  the  heavens  of  the  Lord." 

MARY — [Tugging  at  his  hand  and  bursting  again 
into  shrill  laughter.]  Come  on,  gran'paw.  [He  al 
lows  himself  to  be  led  off,  right] 

SWEENEY — [Making  the  sign  of  the  cross  fur 
tively — with  a  sigh  of  relief.]  He's  gone,  thank 
God !  What  a  snake's  tongue  he  has  in  him !  [He 
sits  down  on  the  bench  to  the  left  of  table]  Come 
here,  Annie,  till  I  speak  to  you.  [She  sits  down  on 
the  bench  in  front  of  table.  SWEENEY  winks  mys 
teriously.]  Well,  I  saw  him,  sure  enough. 

ANNIE —  [Stupidly.  ]     Who  ? 

SWEENEY—  [Sharply]  Who?  Who  but  Dick 
Waller,  the  lawyer,  that  I  went  to  see.  [Lowering 
his  voice]  An'  I've  found  out  what  we  was  wishin* 
to  know.  [With  a  laugh]  Ye  said  I'd  been 
drinkin' — which  is  true ;  but  'twas  all  in  the  plan  I'd 
made.  I've  a  head  for  strong  drink,  as  ye  know, 
but  he  hasn't.  [He  winks  cunningly]  An'  the 
whiskey  loosened  his  tongue  till  he'd  told  all  he  knew. 

ANNIE — He  told  you — about  Paw's  will? 

SWEENEY — He  did.  [Disappointedly]  But  for 
all  the  good  it  does  us  we  might  as  well  be  no  wiser 
than  we  was  before.  [He  broods  for  a  moment  in 
silence — then  hits  the  table  furiously  with  his  fist] 
God's  curse  on  the  auld  miser! 

ANNIE — What  did  he  tell  you? 

SWEENEY — Not  much  at  the  first.     He's  a  cute 


192  THE  ROPE 

one,  an'  he'd  be  askin'  a  fee  to  tell  you  your  own 
name,  if  he  could  get  it.  His  practice  is  all  drib 
bled  away  from  him  lately  on  account  of  the  drink. 
So  I  let  on  I  was  only  payin'  a  friendly  call,  havin' 
known  him  for  years.  Then  I  asked  him  out  to 
have  a  drop  o'  drink,  knowin'  his  weakness;  an'  we 
had  rashers  of  them,  an'  I  payin'  for  it.  Then  I 
come  out  with  it  straight  and  asked  him  about  the 
will — because  the  auld  man  was  crazy  an'  on  his  last 
legs,  I  told  him,  an'  he  was  the  lawyer  made  out  the 
will  when  Luke  was  gone.  So  he  winked  at  me  an' 
grinned — he  was  drunk  by  this — an'  said:  "It's  no 
use,  Pat.  He  left  the  farm  to  the  boy."  "To  hell 
with  the  farm,"  I  spoke  back.  "It's  mortgaged  to 
the  teeth;  but  how  about  the  money?"  "The 
money?"  an'  he  looks  at  me  in  surprise,  "What 
money?"  "The  cash  he  has,"  I  says.  "You're 
crazy,"  he  says.  "There  wasn't  any  cash — only 
the  farm."  "D'you  mean  to  say  he  made  no  men 
tion  of  money  in  his  will?"  I  asked.  You  could 
have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  "He  did 
not — on  my  oath,"  he  says.  [SWEENEY  leans  over 
to  his  wife — indignantly.]  Now  what  d'you  make  o' 
that?  The  auld  divil! 

ANNIE — Maybe  Waller  was  lyin'. 

SWEENEY — He  was  not.  I  could  tell  by  his  face. 
He  was  surprised  to  hear  me  talkin'  of  money. 

ANNIE — But  the  thousand  dollars  Paw  got  for 
the  mortgage  just  before  that  woman  ran  away 


THE  ROPE  QL93 

SWEENEY — An9  that  I've  been  slavin'  me  hands  off 
to  pay  the  int'rist  on! 

ANNIE — What  could  he  have  done  with  that?  He 
ain't  spent  it.  It  was  in  twenty  dollar  gold  pieces 
he  got  it,  I  remember  Mr.  Kellar  of  the  bank  tellin' 
me  once. 

SWEENEY — Divil  a  penny  he's  spent.  Ye  know 
as  well  as  I  do  if  it  wasn't  for  my  hammerin',  an* 
sawin',  an'  nailin',  he'd  be  in  the  poor  house  this 
minute — or  the  mad  house,  more  likely. 

ANNIE — D'you  suppose  that  harlot  ran  off  with 
it? 

SWEENEY — I  do  not;  I  know  better — an*  so  do 
you.  D'you  not  remember  the  letter  she  wrote 
tellin'  him  he  :ould  support  Luke  on  the  money  he'd 
got  on  the  mortgage  she'd  signed  with  him;  for 
he'd  made  the  farm  over  to  her  when  he  married 
her.  An'  where  d'you  suppose  Luke  got  the  hun 
dred  dollars  he  stole?  The  auld  loon  must  have  had 
cash  with  him  then,  an'  it's  only  five  years  back. 

ANNIE — He's  got  it  hid  some  place  in  the  house 
most  likely. 

SWEENEY — Maybe  you're  right.  I'll  dig  in  the 
cellar  this  night  when  he's  sleepin'.  He  used  to  be 
down  there  a  lot  recitin'  Scripture  in  his  fits. 

ANNIE — What  else  did  Waller  say? 

SWEENEY — Nothin'  much ;  except  that  we  should! 
put  notices  in  the  papers  for  Luke,  an'  if  he  didn't 
come  back  by  sivin  years  from  when  he'd  left — two 


194  THE  ROPE 

years  from  now,  that'd  be — the  courts  would  say 
he  was  dead  an'  give  us  the  farm.  Divil  a  lot  of  use 
it  is  to  us  now  with  no  money  to  fix  it  up;  an'  him 
self  ruinin'  it  years  ago  by  sellin'  everythin'  to  buy 
that  slut  new  clothes. 

ANNIE — Don't  folks  break  wills  like  his'n  in  the 
courts  ? 

SWEENEY — Waller  said  'twas  no  use.  The  auld 
divil  was  plain  in  his  full  senses  when  he  made  it; 
an'  the  courts  cost  money. 

ANNIE — [Resignedly.]  There  ain't  nothin*  we 
can  do  then. 

SWEENEY — No — except  wait  an'  pray  that  young 
thief  is  dead  an*  won't  come  back;  an'  try  an'  find 
where  it  is  the  auld  man  has  the  gold  hid,  if  he  has 
it  yet.  I'd  take  him  by  the  neck  an'  choke  him  till 
he  told  it,  if  he  wasn't  your  father.  [He  takes  a 
full  quart  flask  of  whiskey  from  the  pocket  of  his 
coat  and  has  a  big  drink.~\  Aahh!  If  we'd  on'y 
the  thousand  we'd  stock  the  farm  good  an'  I'd  give  up 
this  dog's  game  [He  indicates  the  carpentry  outfit 
scornfully.]  an'  we'd  both  work  hard  with  a  man 
or  two  to  help,  an'  in  a  few  years  we'd  be  rich;  for 
'twas  always  a  payin'  place  in  the  auld  days. 

ANNIE — Yes,  yes,  it  was  always  a  good  farm 
then. 

SWEENEY — He'll  not  last  long  in  his  senses,  the 
doctor  told  me.  His  next  attack  will  be  very  soon 
an'  after  it  he'll  be  a  real  lunatic  with  no  legal 


THE  ROPE  .  195 

claims  to  anythin*.  If  we  on'y  had  the  money— 
'Twould  be  the  divil  an'  all  if  the  auld  fool  should 
forget  where  he  put  it,  an'  him  takin'  leave  of  his 
senses  altogether.  [He  takes  another  nip  at  the 
bottle  and  puts  it  back  in  his  pocket — with  a  sigh.~\ 
Ah,  well,  I'll  save  what  I  can  an'  at  the  end  of  two 
years,  with  good  luck  in  the  trade,  maybe  we'll  have 
enough.  [They  are  both  startled  by  the  heavy  foot 
steps  of  some  one  approaching  outside.  A  shrill 
burst  of  MARY'S  laughter  can  be  heard  and  the  deep 
voice  of  a  man  talking  to  her.] 

SWEENEY — [Uneasily.]  It's  Mary;  but  who 
could  that  be  with  her?  It's  not  himself.  [As  he 
finishes  speaking  LUKE  appears  in  the  doorway,  hold 
ing  the  dancing  MARY  by  the  hand.  He  is  a  tall, 
strapping  young  fellow  about  twenty-five  with  a 
coarse-featured,  rather  handsome  face  bronzed  by 
the  sun.  What  hi$  face  lacks  in  intelligence  is 
partly  forgiven  for  his  good-natured,  half-foolish 
grin,  his  hearty  laugh,  his  curly  dark  hair,  a  certain 
devil-may-care  recklessness  and  irresponsible  youth 
in  voice  and  gesture.  But  his  mouth  is  weak 
and  characterless;  his  brown  eyes  are  large 
but  shifty  and  acquisitive.  He  wears  a  dark  blue 
jersey,  patched  Ulue  pants,  rough  sailor  shoes,  and 
a  gray  cap.  He  advances  into  the  stable  with  a 
mocking  smile  on  his  lips  until  he  stands  directly 
under  the  rope.  The  man  and  woman  stare  at  him 
in  petrified  amazement.] 


196  THE  ROPE 

ANNIE — Luke  I 

SWEENEY — [Crossing  himself. ~\  Glory  be  to  God 
—it's  him! 

MARY — [Hopping  up  and  down  wildly.']  It's 
Uncle  Luke,  Uncle  Luke,  Uncle  Luke!  [She  runs 
to  her  mother,  who  pushes  her  away  angrily.] 

LUKE — [Regarding  them  both  with  an  amused 
grin.~\  Sure,  it's  Luke — back  after  five  years  of 
bummin*  round  the  rotten  old  earth  in  ships  and 
things.  Paid  off  a  week  ago — had  a  bust-up — and 
then  took  a  notion  to  come  out  here — bummed  my 
way — and  here  I  am.  And  you're  both  of  you 
tickled  to  death  to  see  me,  ain't  yuh? — like  hell! 
[He  laughs  and  walks  over  to  ANNIE.]  Don't  yuh 
even  want  to  shake  flippers  with  your  dear,  long-lost 
brother,  Annie?  I  remember  you  and  me  used  to 
git  on  so  fine  together — like  hell! 

ANNIE — [Giving  him  a  venomous  look  of  hatred.] 
Keep  your  hands  to  yourself. 

LUKE — [Grinning.']  You  ain't  changed,  that's 
sure — on'y  yuh're  homlier'n  ever.  [He  turns  to  the 
scowling  Sweeney.]  How  about  you,  brother  Pat? 

SWEENEY — I'd  not  lower  myself  to  take  the  hand 
of  a 

LUKE — [With  a  threat  in  his  voice.]  Easy  goes 
with  that  talk!  I'm  not  so  soft  to  lick  as  I  was 
when  I  was  a  kid;  and  don't  forget  it. 

ANNIE — [To  MARY,  who  is  playing  catch  with  a 
silver  dollar  which  she  has  had  clutched  in  her 


THE  ROPE  i97 

hand — sharply.]  Mary!  What  have  you  got 
there?  Where  did  you  get  it?  Bring  it  here  to  me 
this  minute!  [MARY  presses  the  dollar  to  her 
breast  and  remains  standing  by  the  doorway  in  stub 
born  silence. 1 

LUKE — Aw,  let  her  alone!  What's  bitin'  yuh? 
That's  on'y  a  silver  dollar  I  give  her  when  I  met  her 
front  of  the  house.  She  told  me  you  was  up 
here;  and  I  give  her  that  as  a  present  to  buy  candy 
with.  I  got  it  in  Frisco — cart-wheels,  they  call  'em. 
There  ain't  none  of  them  in  these  parts  I  ever  seen, 
so  I  brung  it  along  on  the  voyage. 

ANNIE — [Angrily .]  I  don't  know  or  care  where 
you  got  it — but  I  know  you  ain't  come  by  it  honest. 
Mary!  Give  that  back  to  him  this  instant!  [As 
the  child  hesitates,  she  stamps  her  foot  furiously.'] 
D'you  hear  me?  [MARY  starts  to  cry  softly,  but 
comes  to  LUKE  and  hands  him  the  dollar.] 

LUKE — [Taking  it — with  a  look  of  disgust  at  his 
half-sister.~\  I  was  right  when  I  said  you  ain't 
changed,  Annie.  You're  as  stinkin'  mean  as  ever. 
[To  MARY,  consolingly.]  Quit  bawlin',  kid.  You 
V  me'll  go  out  on  the  edge  of  the  cliff  here  and 
chuck  some  stones  in  the  ocean  same's  we  useter,  re 
member?  [MARY'S  tears  immediately  cease.  She 
looks  up  at  him  with  shining  eyes,  and  claps  her 
hands.] 

MARY — [Point wig  to  the  dollar  he  has  in  his 
hand.]  Throw  that !  It's  flat  V  it'll  skip. 


198  THE  ROPE 

LUKE—  [With  a  grin.']  That's  the  talk,  kid. 
That's  all  it's  good  for — to  throw  away ;  not  buryin' 
it  like  your  miser  folks'd  tell  you.  Here !  You 
take  it  and  chuck  it  away.  It's  your'n.  [He  gives 
her  the  dollar  and  she  hops  to  the  doorway.  He 
turns  to  PAT  with  a  grin.]  I'm  learnin'  your  kid 
to  be  a  sport,  Tight-Wad.  I  hope  you  ain't  got  no 
objections. 

MARY — [Impatiently.'}  Come  on,  Uncle  Luke. 
Watch  me  throw  it. 

LUKE — Aw  right.  [To  PAT.]  I'll  step  outside 
a  second  and  give  you  two  a  chanct  to  git  all  the 
dirty  things  yuh're  thinkin'  about  me  off  your 
chest.  [Threateningly.]  And  then  I'm  gointer 
come  and  talk  turkey  to  you,  see?  I  didn't  come 
back  here  for  fun,  and  the  sooner  you  gets  that  in 
your  beans,  the  better. 

MARY — Come  on  and  watch  me! 

LUKE — Aw  right,  I'm  comin'.  [He  walks  out  and 
stands,  leaning  his  back  against  the  doorway,  left. 
MARY  is  about  six  feet  beyond  him  on  the  other  side 
of  the  road.  She  is  leaning  down,  peering  over  the 
edge  of  the  cliff  and  laughing  excitedly.] 

MARY — Can  I  throw  it  now?     Can  I? 

LUKE — Don't  git  too  near  the  edge,  kid.  The 
water's  deep  down  there,  and  you'd  be  a  drowned 
rat  if  you  slipped.  [She  shrinks  back  a  step] 
You  chuck  it  when  I  say  three.  Ready,  now! 
[She  draws  back  her  arm]  One!  Two!  Three! 


THE  ROPE  199 

[She  throws  the  dollar  away  and  "bends  down  to 
see  it  hit  the  water.] 

MARY — [Clapping  her  hands  and  laughing.]  I 
seen  it!  I  seen  it  splash!  It's  deep  down  now, 
ain't  it? 

LUKE — Yuh  betcher  it  is !  Now  watch  how  far  I 
kin  chuck  rocks.  [He  picks  up  a  couple  and  goes 
to  where  she  is  standing.  During  the  following  con 
versation  between  SWEENEY  and  his  wife  he  continues 
to  play  this  way  with  MARY.  Their  voices  can  be 
heard  but  the  words  are  indistinguishable.] 

SWEENEY — [Glancing  apprehensively  toward  the 
door — with  a  great  sigh.]  Speak  of  the  divil  an' 
here  he  is!  [Furiously.]  Flingin'  away  dollars, 
the  dirty  thief,  an'  us  without 

ANNIE — [Interrupting  him.]  Did  you  hear  what 
he  said?  A  thief  like  him  ain't  come  back  for  no 
good.  [Lowering  her  voice.]  D'you  s'pose  he 
knows  about  the  farm  bein'  left  to  him? 

SWEENEY — [Uneasily.]  How  could  he?  An' 
yet — I  dunno — [With  sudden  decision.]  You'd 
best  lave  him  to  me  to  watch  out  for.  It's  small 
sense  you  have  to  hide  your  hate  from  him.  You're 
as  looney  as  the  rist  of  your  breed.  An'  he  needs 
to  be  blarneyed  round  to  fool  him  an'  find  out  what 
he's  wantin'.  I'll  pritind  to  make  friends  with  him, 
God  roast  his  soul !  An'  do  you  run  to  the  house  an' 
break  the  news  to  the  auld  man;  for  if  he  seen 
him  suddin  its  likely  the  little  wits  he  has  left  would 


200  THE  ROPE 

leave  him;  an*  the  thief  could  take  the  farm  from 
us  to-morrow  if  himself  turned  a  lunatic. 

ANNIE — [Getting  up]  I'll  tell  him  a  little  at  a 
time  till  he  knows. 

SWEENEY — Be  careful,  now,  or  we'll  lose  the 
farm  this  night.  [She  starts  towards  the  doorway. 
SWEENEY  speaks  suddenly  in  a  strange,  awed  voice. ~\ 
Did  you  see  Luke  when  he  first  came  in  to  us?  He 
stood  there  with  the  noose  of  the  rope  almost  touch- 
in'  his  head.  I  was  almost  wishin' [He  hesi 
tates.^ 

ANNIE — [Viciously.]  I  was  wishin'  it  was  round 
his  neck  chokin'  him,  that's  what  I  was — hangin* 
him  just  as  Paw  says. 

SWEENEY — Ssshh !  He  might  hear  ye.  Go  along, 
now.  He's  comin'  back. 

MARY — [Pulling  at  LUKE'S  arm  as  he  comes  back 
to  the  doorway]  Lemme  throw  'nother!  Lemme 
throw  'nother  I 

LUKE — [Enters  just  as  ANNIE  is  going  out  and 
stops  her.]  Goin'  to  the  house?  Do  we  get  any 
supper?  I'm  hungry. 

ANNIE — [Glaring  at  him  but  restraining  her 
rage.]  Yes. 

LUKE — [Jovially]  Good  work!  And  tell  the 
old  man  I'm  here  and  I'll  see  him  in  a  while.  He'll 
be  glad  to  see  me,  too — like  hell!  [He  comes  for 
ward.  ANNIE  goes  off,  right.] 


THE  ROPE  201 

MARY — [In  an  angry  whine,  tugging  at  his  hand.] 
Lemme  throw  'nother.  Lemme 

LUKE — [Shaking  her  away.]  There's  lots  of 
rocks,  kid.  Throw  them.  Dollars  ain't  so  plenti 
ful. 

MARY — [Screaming.]  No!  No!  I  don' wanter 
throw  rocks.  Lemme  throw  'nother  o*  them. 

SWEENEY — [Severely. ,]  Let  your  uncle  in  peace, 
ye  brat!  [She  commences  to  cry.]  Run  help  your 
mother  now  or  I'll  give  ye  a  good  hidin*.  [MARY 
runs  out  of  the  door,  whimpering.  PAT  turns  to 
LUKE  and  holds  out  his  hand.] 

LUKE — [Looking  at  it  in  amazement.]  Ahoy, 
there!  What's  this? 

SWEENEY — [With  an  ingratiating  smile.]  Let's 
let  by-gones  be  by-gones.  I'm  harborin'  no  grudge 
agen  you  these  past  years.  Ye  was  only  a  lad  when 
ye  ran  away  an'  not  to  be  blamed  for  it.  I'd  have 
taken  your  hand  a  while  back,  an'  glad  to,  but  for 
her  bein'  with  us.  She  has  the  divil's  own  tongue, 
as  ye  know,  an'  she  can't  forget  the  rowin'  you  an' 
her  used  to  be  havin'. 

LUKE — [Still  looking  at  SWEENEY'S  hand.]  So 
that's  how  the  wind  blows!  [With  a  grin.]  Well, 
I'll  take  a  chanct.  [They  shake  hands  and  sit  down 
by  the  table,  SWEENEY  on  the  front  bench  and  LUKE 
on  the  left  one.] 

SWEENEY — [Putts  the  bottle  from  his  coat  pocket 


THE  ROPE 

— with  a  wink.'}  Will  ye  have  a  taste?  It's  real 
stuff. 

LUKE — Yuh  betcher  I  will !  [He  takes  a  big  gulp 
and  hands  the  bottle  back.] 

SWEENEY — [After  taking  a  drink  himself,  puts 
bottle  on  table.'}  I  wasn't  wishin'  herself  to  see  it 
or  I'd  have  asked  ye  sooner.  [There  is  a  pause, 
during  which  each  measures  the  other  with  his  eyes.] 

LUKE — Say,  how's  the  old  man  now? 

SWEENEY — [Cautiously.]  Oh,  the  same  as  ivir — 
older  an'  uglier,  maybe. 

LUKE — I  thought  he  might  be  in  the  bug-house  by 
this  time. 

SWEENEY — [Hastily.]  Indeed  not;  he's  foxy  to 
pritind  he's  looney,  but  he's  his  wits  with  him  all 
the  time. 

LUKE — [Insinuatingly.]  Is  he  as  stingy  with  his 
coin  as  he  used  to  be? 

SWEENEY — If  he  owned  the  ocean  he  wouldn't  give 
a  fish  a  drink ;  but  I  doubt  if  he's  any  money  left  at 
all.  Your  mother  got  rid  of  it  all,  I'm  thinkin'. 
[LUKE  smiles  a  superior,  knowing  smile.]  He  has 
on'y  the  farm,  an'  that  mortgaged.  I've  been  payin* 
the  int'rist  an'  supportin'  himself  an'  his  doctor's 
bills  by  the  carpentryin'  these  five  years  past. 

LUKE — [With  a  grin.]  Huh!  Yuh're  slow.  Yuh 
oughter  get  wise  to  yourself. 

SWEENEY — [Inquisitively.]  What  d'ye  mean  by 
that? 


THE  ROPE  203 

LUKE — [Aggravatingly.]  Aw,  nothin'.  [He  turns 
around  and  his  eyes  fix  themselves  on  the  rope.] 

What  the  hell [He  is  suddenly  convulsed  with 

laughter  and  slaps  his  thigh.]  Hahaha!  If  that 
don't  beat  the  Dutch !  The  old  nut ! 

SWEENY — What  ? 

LUKE — That  rope.  Say,  has  he  had  that  hangin' 
there  ever  since  I  skipped? 

SWEENEY — [Smiling. ]  Sure;  an'  he  thinks  you'll 
be  comin'  home  to  hang  yourself. 

LUKE — Hahaha !  Not  this  chicken !  And  you  say 
he  ain't  crazy !  Gee,  that's  too  good  to  keep.  I  got 
to  have  a  drink  on  that.  [SWEENEY  pushes  the  bot 
tle  toward  him.  He  raises  it  toward  the  rope.] 
Here's  how,  old  chum !  [He  drinks.  SWEENEY  does 
likewise.]  Say,  I'd  a'most  forgotten  about  that. 
Remember  how  hot  he  was  that  day  when  he  hung 
that  rope  up  and  cussed  me  for  pinchin'  the  hun 
dred?  He  was  standin'  there  shakin'  his  stick  at 
me,  and  I  was  laughin'  'cause  he  looked  so  funny 
with  the  spit  dribblin'  outa  his  mouth  like  he  was  a 
mad  dog.  And  when  I  turned  round  and  beat  it  he 
shouted  after  me :  "Remember,  when  you  come  home 
again  there's  a  rope  waitin'  for  yuh  to  hang  your 
self  on,  yuh  bastard!"  [He  spits  contemptuously.] 
What  a  swell  chanct.  [His  manner  changes  and  he 
frowns.]  The  old  slave-driver!  That's  a  hell  of  a 
fine  old  man  for  a  guy  to  have! 

SWEENEY — [Pushing    the    bottle    toward    him.] 


204s  THE  ROPE 

Take  a  sup  an'  forgit  it.     'Twas  a  long  time  past. 

LUKE — But  the  rope's  there  yet,  ain't  it?  And 
he  keeps  it  there.  [He  takes  a  large  swallow. 
SWEENEY  also  drinks.]  But  I'll  git  back  at  him  aw 
right,  yuh  wait  'n'  see.  I'll  git  every  cent  he's  got 
this  time. 

SWEENEY — \_Slyly '.]  If  he  has  a  cent.  I'm  not 

wishful  to  discourage  ye,  but [He  shakes  his 

head  doubtfully,  at  the  same  time  -fixing  LUKE  with 
a  keen  glance  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.~\ 

LUKE — [With  a  cunning  wink.]  Aw,  he's  got  it 
aw  right.  You  watch  me !  [He  is  beginning  to  show 
the  effects  of  the  drink  he  has  had.  He  pulls  out 
tobacco  and  a  paper  and  rolls  a  cigarette  and  lights 
it.  As  he  puffs  he  continues  boastfully.]  You 
country  jays  oughter  wake  up  and  see  what's  goin' 
on.  Look  at  me.  I  was  green  as  grass  when  I  left 
here,  but  bummin'  round  the  world,  and  bein'  in 
cities,  and  meetin'  all  kinds,  and  keepin'  your  two 
eyes  open — that's  what'll  learn  yuh  a  cute  trick  or 
two. 

SWEENEY — No  doubt  but  you're  right.  Us  coun 
try  folks  is  stupid  in  most  ways.  We've  no  chance 
to  learn  the  things  a  travelin'  lad  like  you'd  be 
knowin'. 

LUKE — [Complacently.]  Well,  you  watch  me  and 
I'll  learn  yuh.  [He  snickers]  So  yuh  think  the 
old  man's  flat  broke,  do  yuh? 

SWEENEY — I  do  so. 


THE  ROPE  205 

LUKE — Then  yuh're  simple;  that's  what — simple! 
You're  lettin'  him  kid  yuh. 

SWEENEY — If  he  has  any,  it's  well  hid,  I  know 
that.  He's  a  sly  old  bird. 

LUKE — And  I'm  a  slyer  bird.  D'yuh  hear  that? 
I  c'n  beat  his  game  any  time.  You  watch  me !  [He 
reaches  out  his  hand  for  the  bottle.  They  both  drink 
again.  SWEENEY  begins  to  show  signs  of  getting 
drunk.  He  hiccoughs  every  now  and  then  and  his 
voice  grows  uncertain  and  husky. ~\ 

SWEENEY — It'd  be  a  crafty  one  who'd  find  where 
he'd  hidden  it,  sure  enough. 

LUKE — You  watch  me!  I'll  find  it.  I  betcher 
anything  yuh  like  I  find  it.  You  watch  me!  Just 
wait  till  he's  asleep  and  I'll  show  yuh — ter-night. 
[There  is  a  noise  of  shuffling  footsteps  outside  and 
ANNIE'S  whining  voice  raised  in  angry  protest.] 

SWEENEY — Ssshh !  It's  himself  comin'  now.  [LUKE 
rises  to  his  feet  and  stands,  waiting  in  a  defensive  at 
titude,  a  surly  expression  on  his  face.  A  moment  later 
BENTLEY  appears  in  the  doorway,  -followed  by  AN 
NIE.  He  leans  against  the  wall,  in  an  extraordinary 
state  of  excitement,  shaking  all  over,  gasping  for 
breath,  his  eyes  devouring  LUKE  from  head  to  foot.] 

ANNIE — I  couldn't  do  nothin'  with  him.  When  I 
told  him  he9d  come  back  there  was  no  holdin'  him. 
He  was  a'most  frothin'  at  the  mouth  till  I  let  him 
out.  [Whiningly.]  You  got  to  see  to  him,  Pat,  if 
you  want  any  supper.  I  can't 


206  THE  ROPE 

SWEENEY — Shut  your  mouth!  We'll  look  after 
him. 

ANNIE — See  that  you  do.  I'm  goin'  back.  [She 
goes  off,  right.  LUKE  and  his  father  stand  looking 
at  each  other.  The  surly  expression  disappears 
from  LUKE'S  face,  which  gradually  expands  in  a 
broad  grin.] 

LUKE — [Jovially.]  Hello,  old  sport!  I  s'pose 
yuh're  tickled  to  pieces  to  see  me — like  hell!  [The 
old  man  stutters  and  stammers  incoherently  as  if 
the  very  intensity  of  his  desire  for  speech  had  para 
lyzed  all  power  of  articulation.  LUKE  turns  to  Pat.] 
I  see  he  ain't  lost  the  old  stick.  Many  a  crack  on 
the  nut  I  used  to  get  with  that. 

BENTLEY — [Suddenly  finding  his  voice — chants.] 
"Bring  forth  the  best  robe,  and  put  it  on  him;  and 
put  a  ring  on  his  hand,  and  shoes  on  his  feet:  And 
bring  hither  the  fatted  calf,  and  kill  it ;  and  let  us 
eat,  and  be  merry :  For  this  my  son  was  dead,  and 
is  alive  again ;  he  was  lost,  and  is  found."  [He  ends 
up  with  a  convulsive  sob.] 

LUKE — [Disapprovingly.]  Yuh're  still  spoutin' 
the  rotten  old  Word  o'  God  same's  ever,  eh?  Say, 
give  us  a  rest  on  that  stuff,  will  yuh?  Come  on  and 
shake  hands  like  a  good  sport.  [He  holds  out  his 
hand.  The  old  man  totters  over  to  him,  stretching 
out  a  trembling  hand.  LUKE  seizes  it  and  pumps 
it  up  and  down.]  That's  the  boy ! 

SWEENEY — [Genuinely  amazed.]     Look  at  that, 


THE  ROPE  207 

would  ye — the  two-faced  auld  liar.  [BENTLEY 
passes  his  trembling  hand  all  over  LUKE,  -feeling  of 
his  arms,  his  chest,  his  back.  An  expression  of  over 
whelming  joy  suffuses  his  worn  features.'] 

LUKE — [Grinning  at  SWEENEY.]  Say,  watch  this. 
[With  tolerant  good-humor."}  On  the  level  I  b'lieve 
the  old  boy's  glad  to  see  me  at  that.  He  looks  like 
he  was  tryin'  to  grin ;  and  I  never  seen  him  grin  in 
my  life,  I  c'n  remember.  [As  BENTLEY  attempts  to 
feel  of  his  face.~\  Hey,  cut  it  out !  [He  pushes  his 
hand  away,  but  not  roughly.]  I'm  all  here,  yuh 
needn't  worry.  Yuh  needn't  be  scared  I'm  a  ghost. 
Come  on  and  sit  down  before  yuh  fall  down.  Yuh 
ain't  got  your  sea-legs  workin'  right.  [He  guides 
the  old  man  to  the  bench  at  left  of  table.]  Squat 
here  for  a  spell  and  git  your  wind.  [BENTLEY  sinks 
down-  on  the  bench.  LUKE  reaches  for  the  bottle.] 
Have  a  drink  to  my  makin'  port.  It'll  buck  yuh  up. 

SWEENEY — [Alarmed.]  Be  careful,  Luke.  It 
might  likely  end  him. 

LUKE — [Holds  the  bottle  up  to  the  old  man's 
mouth,  supporting  his  head  with  the  other  hand. 
BENTLEY  gulps,  the  whiskey  drips  over  his  chin,  and 
he  goes  into  a  "fit  of  convulsive  coughing.  LUKE 
laughs]  Hahaha!  Went  down  the  wrong  way,  did 
it?  I'll  show  yuh  the  way  to  do  it.  [He  drinks] 
There  yuh  are — smooth  as  silk.  [He  hands  the  bot 
tle  to  SWEENEY,  who  drinks  and  puts  it  back  on  the 
table.] 


208  THE  ROPE 

SWEENEY — He  must  be  glad  to  see  ye  or  he'd  not 
drink.  'Tis  dead  against  it  he's  been  these  five  years 
past.  [Shaking  his  head."]  An'  him  cursin*  you  day 
an'  night !  I  can't  put  head  or  tail  to  it.  Look  out 
he  ain't  meanin'  some  bad  to  ye  underneath.  He's 
crafty  at  pretendin*. 

LUKE — [As  the  old  man  makes  signs  to  him  with 
his  hand."]  What's  he  after  now?  He's  lettin'  on 
he's  lost  his  voice  again.  What  d'yuh  want  ?  [BENT- 
LEY  points  with  his  stick  to  the  rope.  His  lips  move 
convulsively  as  lie  makes  a  tremendous  effort  to  ut 
ter  words. ~] 

BENTLEY — [Mumbling  incoherently.'}  Luke — 
Luke — rope — Luke — hang. 

SWEENEY — [Appalled."]  There  ye  are!  What 
did  I  tell  you?  It's  to  see  you  hang  yourself  he's 
wishin',  the  auld  fiend ! 

BENTLEY — [Nodding. ,]     Yes — Luke — hang. 

LUKE — [Taking  it  as  a  joke — with  a  loud  guf 
faw.']  Hahaha!  If  that  don't  beat  the  Dutch  !  The 
old  nanny-goat !  Aw  right,  old  sport.  Anything  to 
oblige.  Hahaha!  [He  takes  the  chair  from  left 
and  places  it  under  the  rope.  The  old  man  watches 
him  with  eager  eyes  and  seems  to  be  trying  to  smile. 
LUKE  stands  on  the  chair.] 

SWEENEY — Have  a  care,  now !  I'd  not  be  foolin* 
with  it  in  your  place. 

LUKE — All  out  for  the  big  hangin*  of  Luke  Bent- 
ley  by  hisself.  [He  puts  the  noose  about  his  neck 


THE  ROPE  209 

with  an  air  of  drunken  bravado  and  grins  at  his 
father.  The  latter  makes  violent  motions  for  him 
to  go  en.]  Look  at  him,  Pat.  By  God,  he's  in  a 
hurry.  Hahaha !  Well,  old  sport,  here  goes  nothin'.  , 
[He  makes  a  movement  as  if  he  were  going  to  jump 
and  kick  the  chair  from  under  him.] 

SWEENEY — [Half  starts  to  his  feet — horrified."] 
Luke!  Are  ye  gone  mad? 

LUKE — [Stands  staring  at  his  father,  who  is  still 
making  gestures  for  him  to  jump.  A  scowl  slowly 
replaces  his  good-natured  grin.']  D'yuh  really  mean 
it — that  yuh  want  to  see  me  hangin'  myself?  [BENT- 
LEY  nods  vigorously  in  the  affirmative.  LUKE  glares 
at  him  for  a  moment  in  silence."]  Well,  I'll  be 
damned!  [To  Pat."]  An'  I  thought  he  was  only 
kiddin'.  [He  removes  the  rope  gingerly  from  his 
neck.  The  old  man  stamps  his  foot  and  gesticulates 
wildly,  groaning  with  disappointment.  LUKE  jumps 
to  the  floor  and  looks  at  his  father  for  a  second. 
Then  his  face  grows  white  with  a  vicious  fury.]  I'll 
fix  your  hash,  you  stinkin'  old  murderer !  [He  grabs 
the  chair  by  its  back  and  swings  it  over  his  head  as 
if  he  were  going  to  crush  BENTLEY'S  skull  with  it. 
The  old  man  cowers  on  the  bench  in  abject  terror.] 

SWEENEY — [Jumping  to  his  feet  with  a  cry  of 
alarm.]  Luke!  For  the  love  of  God!  [LUKE  hesi 
tates;  then  hurls  the  chair  in  back  of  him  under  the 
loft,  and  stands  menacingly  in  front  of  his  father,  his 
hands  on  his  hips.] 


310  THE  ROPE 

LUKE — [Grabbing  BENTLEY'S  shoulder  and  shak 
ing  him — hoarsely.]  Yuh  wanted  to  see  me  hangin' 
there  in  real  earnest,  didn't  yuh?  You'd  hang  me 
yourself  if  yuh  could,  wouldn't  yuh?  And  you  my 
own  father !  Yuh  damned  son  of  a  gun !  Yuh  would, 
would  yuh?  I'd  smash  your  brains  out  for  a  nickel! 
[He  shakes  the  old  man  more  and  more  furiously.] 

SWEENEY — Luke!  Look  out!  You'll  be  killin' 
him  next. 

LUKE — [Giving  his  father  one  more  shake,  which 
sends  him  sprawling  on  the  'floor.']  Git  outa  here! 
Git  outa  this  b'fore  I  kill  yuh  dead!  [SWEENEY 
rushes  over  and  picks  the  terrified  old  man  up] 
Take  him  outa  here,  Pat!  [His  voice  rises  to  a 
threatening  roar.]  Take  him  outa  here  or  I'll  break 
every  bone  in  his  body !  [He  raises  his  clenched  fists 
over  his  head  in  a  frenzy  of  rage.] 

SWEENEY — Ssshh!  Don't  be  roarin'!  I've  got 
him.  [He  steers  the  whimpering,  hysterical  BENT- 
LEY  to  the  doorway]  Come  out  o'  this,  now.  Get 
down  to  the  house !  Hurry  now !  Ye've  made  enough 
trouble  for  one  night.  [They  disappear  off  right. 
LUKE  flings  himself  on  a  "bench,  breathing  heavily. 
He  picks  up  the  bottle  and  takes  a  long  swallow. 
SWEENEY  reenters  from  rear.  He  comes  over  and 
sits  down  in  his  old  place]  Thank  God  he's  off 
down  to  the  house,  scurryin'  like  a  frightened  hare 
as  if  he'd  never  a  kink  in  his  legs  in  his  life.  He 
was  moanin'  out  loud  so  you  could  hear  him  a  long 


THE  ROPE 

ways.  [With  a  sigh.]  It's  a  murd'rous  auld  loon 
he  is,  sure  enough. 

LUKE — [Thickly.]     The  damned  son  of  a  gun! 

SWEENEY — I  thought  you'd  be  killiii'  him  that 
time  with  the  chair. 

LUKE — [Violently.]  Serve  him  damn  right  if  I 
done  it. 

SWEENEY — An*  you  laughin'  at  him  a  moment 
sooner!  I  thought  'twas  jokin'  ye  was. 

LUKE — [Sullenly.]  So  I  was  kiddin';  but  I 
thought  he  was  tryin'  to  kid  me,  too.  And  then  I 
seen  by  the  way  he  acted  he  really  meant  it.  [Bang 
ing  the  table  with  his  fist.]  Ain't  that  a  hell  of  a 
fine  old  man  for  yuh ! 

SWEENEY — He's  a  mean  auld  swine. 

LUKE — He  meant  it  aw  right,  too.  Yuh  shoulda 
seen  him  lookin'  at  me.  [With  sudden  lugubrious- 
ness.]  Ain't  he  a  hell  of  a  nice  old  man  for  a  guy 
to  have?  Ain't  he? 

SWEENEY — [Soothingly.]  Hush!  It's  all  over 
now.  Don't  be  thinkin'  about  it. 

LUKE — [On  the  verge  of  drunken  tears.]  How 
kin  I  help  thinkin' — and  him  my  own  father?  After 
me  bummin'  and  starvin'  round  the  rotten  earth,  and 
workin'  myself  to  death  on  ships  and  things — and 
when  I  come  home  he  tries  to  make  me  bump  off — 
wants  to  see  me  a  corpse — my  own  father,  too !  Ain't 
he  a  hell  of  an  old  man  to  have?  The  rotten  son 
of  a  gun! 


THE  ROPE 

SWEENEY — It's  past  an'  done.  Forgit  it.  [He 
slaps  LUKE  on  the  shoulder  and  pushes  the  bottle 
toward  him.]  Let's  take  a  drop  more.  We'll  be 
goin'  to  supper  soon. 

LUKE — [Takes  a  big  drink — huskily.]  Thanks. 
[He  wipes  his  mouth  on  his  sleeve  with  a  snuffle.] 
But  I'll  tell  yuh  something  you  can  put  in  your 
pipe  and  smoke.  It  ain't  past  and  done,  and  it  ain't 
goin'  to  be !  [More  and  more  aggressively.]  And  I 
ain't  goin'  to  ferget  it,  either!  Yuh  kin  betcher  life 
on  that,  pal.  And  he  ain't  goin'  to  ferget  it — not 
if  he  lives  a  million — not  by  a  damned  sight !  [  With 
sudden  fury.]  I'll  fix  his  hash!  I'll  git  even  with 
him,  the  old  skunk !  You  watch  me !  And  this  very 
night,  too  I 

SWEENEY — How  d'you  mean  ? 

LUKE — You  just  watch  me,  I  tell  yuh!  [Banging 
the  table.]  I  said  I'd  git  even  and  I  will  git  even — 
this  same  night,  with  no  long  waits,  either !  [Frown 
ing.]  Say,  you  don't  stand  up  for  him,  do  yuh? 

SWEENEY — [Spitting — vehemently.]  That's  child's 
talk.  There's  not  a  day  passed  I've  not  wished  him 
in  his  grave. 

LUKE  [Excitedly.]  Then  we'll  both  git  even  on 
him — you  'n'  me.  We're  pals,  ain't  we? 

SWEENEY — Sure. 

LUKE — And  yuh  kin  have  half  what  we  gits. 
That's  the  kinda  feller  I  am!  That's  fair  enough, 
ain't  it? 


THE  ROPE  213 

SWEENEY — Surely. 

LUKE — I  don't  want  no  truck  with  this  rotten 
farm.  You  kin  have  my  share  of  that.  I  ain't 
made  to  be  no  damned  dirt  puncher — not  me!  And 
I  ain't  goin*  to  loaf  round  here  more'n  I  got  to,  and 
when  I  goes  this  time  I  ain't  never  comin'  back. 
Not  me!  Not  to  punch  dirt  and  milk  cows.  You 
kin  have  the  rotten  farm  for  all  of  me.  What  I 
wants  is  cash — regular  coin  yuh  kin  spend — not  dirt. 
I  want  to  show  the  gang  a  real  time,  and  then  ship 
away  to  sea  agen  or  go  bummin'  agen.  I  want  coin 
yuh  kin  throw  away — same's  your  kid  chucked  that 
dollar  of  mine  overboard,  remember?  A  real  dollar, 
too !  She's  a  sport,  aw  right ! 

SWEENEY — [Anxious  to  bring  him  back  to  the 
subject.']  But  where  d'you  think  to  find  his  money? 

LUKE — [Confidently.]  Don't  yuh  fret.  I'll  show 
yuh.  You  watch  me!  I  know  his  hidin'  places.  I 

useter  spy  on  him  when  I  was  a  kid Maw  used 

to  make  me — and  I  seen  him  many  a  time  at  his 
sneakin'.  [Indignantly.]  He  used  to  hide  stuff 
from  the  old  lady.  What  d'yuh  know  about  him— 
the  mean  skunk. 

SWEENEY — That  was  a  long  time  back.  You  don't 
know 

LUKE — [Assertively.]  But  I  do  know,  see!  He's 
got  two  places.  One  was  where  I  swiped  the  hun 
dred. 

SWEENEY — It'll  not  be  there,  then. 


THE  ROPE 

LUKE — No;  but  there's  the  other  place;  and  he 
never  knew  I  was  wise  to  that.  I'd  have  left  him 
clean  on'y  I  was  a  kid  and  scared  to  pinch  more. 
So  you  watch  me!  We'll  git  even  on  him,  you  'n' 
me,  and  go  halfs,  and  yuh  kin  start  the  rotten  farm 
goin'  agen  and  I'll  beat  it  where  there's  some  life. 

SWEENEY — But  if  there's  no  money  in  that  place, 
what'll  you  be  doin'  to  find  out  where  it  is,  then? 

LUKE — Then  you  'n'  me  'ull  make  him  tell! 

SWEENEY — Oho,  don't  think  it !  'Tis  not  him'd  be 
tellin'. 

LUKE — Aw,  say,  you're  simple!  You  watch  me! 
I  know  a  trick  or  two  about  makin'  people  tell  what 
they  don't  wanter.  [He  picks  up  the  chisel  from 
the  table.]  Yuh  see  this?  Well,  if  he  don't  answer 
up  nice  and  easy  we'll  show  him !  [A  ferocious  grin 
settles  over  his  face.]  We'll  git  even  on  him,  you  'n' 
me — and  he'll  tell  where  it's  hid.  We'll  just  shove 
this  into  the  stove  till  it's  red  hot  and  take  off  his 
shoes  and  socks  and  warm  the  bottoms  of  his  feet 
for  him.  [Savagely.]  He'll  tell  then — anything  we 
wants  him  to  tell. 

SWEENEY — But  Annie? 

LUKE — We'll  shove  a  rag  in  her  mouth  so's  she 
can't  yell.  That's  easy. 

SWEENEY — [His  head  lolling  drurikenly — with  a 
cruel  leer.]  'Twill  serve  him  right  to  heat  up  his 
hoofs  for  him,  the  limpin',  auld  miser! — if  ye  don't 
hurt  him  too  much. 


THE  ROPE  215 

LUKE — [With  a  savage  scowl]  We  won't  hurt 
him — more'n  enough.  [Suddenly  raging.]  I'll  pay 
him  back  aw  right !  He  won't  want  no  more  people 
to  hang  themselves  when  I  git  through  with  him. 
I'll  fix  his  hash !  [He  sways  to  Ms  feet,  the  chisel  in 
his  hand]  Come  on!  Let's  git  to  work.  Sooner 
we  starts  the  sooner  we're  rich.  [SWEENEY  rises. 
He  is  steadier  on  his  feet  than  LUKE.  At  this  mo 
ment  MARY  appears  in  the  doorway] 

MARY — Maw  says  supper's  ready.  I  had  mine.N 
[She  comes  into  the  room  and  jumps  up,  trying  to 
grab  hold  of  the  rope]  Lift  me,  Uncle  Luke.  I 
wanter  swing. 

LUKE — [Severely]  Don't  yuh  dare  touch  that 
rope,  d'yuh  hear? 

MARY — [Whining]     I  wanter  swing. 

LUKE — [With  a  shiver]  It's  bad,  kid.  Yuh  leave 
it  alone,  take  it  from  me. 

SWEENEY — She'll  get  a  good  whalin'  if  I  catch 
her  jumpin'  at  it. 

LUKE — Come  on,  pal.  T'hell  with  supper.  We 
got  work  to  do  first.  [They  go  to  the  doorway] 

SWEENEY — [Turning  back  to  the  sulking  Mary] 
And  you  stay  here,  d'you  hear,  ye  brat,  till  we  call 
ye — or  I'll  skin  ye  alive. 

LUKE — And  ter-morrer  mornin',  kid,  I'll  give  yuh 
a  whole  handful  of  them  shiny,  bright  things 
yuh  chucked  in  the  ocean — and  yuh  kin  be  a  real 
sport. 


216  THE  ROPE 

MARY — [Eagerly. ~\  Gimme  'em,  now!  Gimme  'em 
now,  Uncle  Luke.  [As  he  shakes  his  head — whin- 
ingly.]  Gimme  one!  Gimme  one! 

LUKE — Can't  be  done,  kid.  Ter-morrer.  Me  'n* 
your  old  man  is  goin'  to  git  even  now — goin'  to 
make  him  pay  for 

SWEENEY — {Interrupting — 'harshly.']  Hist  with 
your  noise!  D'you  think  she's  no  ears?  Don't  be 
talkin'  so  much.  Come  on,  now. 

LUKE — [Permitting  himself  to  be  pulled  out  the 
doorway.]  Aw  right!  I'm  with  yuh.  We'll  git 
even — you  'n'  me.  The  damned  son  of  a  gun !  [They 
lurch  off  to  the  right.  ] 

[MARY  skips  to  the  doorway  and  peeps  after  them 
for  a  moment.  Then  she  comes  back  to  the  center 
of  the  floor  and  looks  around  her  with  an  air  of  de 
cision.  She  sees  the  chair  in  under  the  loft  and  runs 
over  to  it,  pulling  it  back  and  setting  it  on  its  legs 
directly  underneath  the  noose  of  the  rope.  She 
climbs  and  stands  on  the  top  of  the  chair  and  grasps 
the  noose  with  both  her  upstretched  hands.  Then 
with  a  shriek  of  delight  she  kicks  the  chair  from  im- 
der  her  and  launches  herself  for  a  swing.  The  rope 
seems  to  part  where  it  is  -fixed  to  the  beam.  A  dirty 
gray  bag  tied  to  the  end  of  the  rope  falls  to  the  floor 
with  a  muffled,  metallic  thud.  MARY  sprawls  for 
ward  on  her  hands  and  knees,  whimpering.  Straggly 
wisps  from  the  pile  of  rank  hay  fall  silently  to  the 
floor  in  a  mist  of  dust.  MARY,  discovering  she  is 


THE  ROPE  217 

hurt,  glances  quickly  around  and  sees  the  bag.  She 
pu.shes  herself  along  the  floor  and,  untying  the  string 
at  the  top,  puts  in  her  hand.  She  gives  an  exclama 
tion  of  joy  at  what  she  feels  and,  turning  the  bag 
upside  down,  pours  its  contents  in  her  lap.  Gig 
gling  to  herself,  she  gets  to  her  feet  and  goes  to  the 
doorway,  where  she  dumps  what  she  has  m  her  lap 
in  a  heap  on  the  floor  just  inside  the  barn.  They 
lie  there  In  a  little  glittering  pile,  shimmering  in  the 
faint  sunset  glow — fifty  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces. 
MARY  claps  her  hands  and  sings  to  herself:  "Skip — 
skip — skip."  Then  she  quickly  picks  up  four  or 
fve  of  them  and  runs  out  to  the  edge  of  the  cliff. 
She  throws  them  one  after  another  into  the  ocean  as 
fast  as  she  can  and  bends  over  to  see  them  hit  the 
water.  Against  the  background  of  horizon  clouds 
still  tinted  with  blurred  crimson  she  hops  up  and 
down  in  a  sort  of  grotesque  dance,  clapping  her 
hands  and  laughing  shrilly.  After  the  last  one  is 
thrown  she  rushes  back  into  the  barn  to  get  more.~\ 
MARY — [Picking  up  a  handful — giggling  ecstasti- 
cally.~\  Skip!  Skip!  [She  turns  and  runs  out  to 
throw  them  as 

[The  Curtain  Falls] 


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